


Rock

by KKGlinka



Category: Adventure Time
Genre: Adventure Time Babysitting AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:01:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1612613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KKGlinka/pseuds/KKGlinka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With former friends gone to college, a perpetually empty bank account and no feasible career, Marceline has nothing left to lose. She wants to scrape up a bit of luck, but she sure as heck doesn't want her father's brand of help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rock

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of [Teddy's Babysitting AU.](http://finn%E2%80%93theheroguy.tumblr.com/tagged/babysitting%20au)

Keeping a practiced eye out for muggers, Marceline Abadeer trudged home. Her dad had moved out and left it to her the day after she turned eighteen, no warning, no card, just a clap on her shoulder and 'See ya, kid'. It was just as well. 

Though she had to take up rent payments after the lease came up, it was somewhere to call home after the club closed after two in the morning and all the girls went home. The local metro quit before then, a cab was expensive and she didn't own a car. She had no way to afford the parking fees in the city, anyway. 

If she had to, she could use her guitar in its bag over her shoulder as a club, but no one bothered her as she climbed the four steps into her building and punched in the entry code. Her first stop was the cluster box to check for mail. It was her small excitement for the day, outside of a rude customer or overly friendly patron. She might get a postcard from Finn from wherever his latest op was or maybe even a letter from… 

Bull, she chided herself, flipping through her mail. There was nothing but a thin flier, some large postcards for services she didn't need and couldn't afford, and a business letter. Her hand begin trembling as she looked at it. The header was from the community college. 

Not waiting to go upstairs, she tore it open, wanting to end the dreadful anticipation. It was probably another rejection, just as she gotten from everyone except the nearby club. Though she was an excellent computer programmer, every company she tried, large and small alike, wanted a degree and several years' experience. A couple grudgingly had offered unpaid internships to test her capability and commitment and she had naively, desperately accepted the second one. 

She had stayed with the small tech group for a year, working full-time and then some, earning praise for her hard work. After she left in the afternoon, she had a brief respite before going to her second job as a waitress which actually paid money so she could make rent. Yet when it came time for them to offer an official full-time post, they let her go in favor of some kid with a degree straight out of college. He had the right clothes and the right family background, or something. Whatever it was, she didn't have it. 

She tried not to hate them because hating those kind of people meant hating Bonnie too, wherever she was now. Probably living large and saving people's lives. 

Bonnibel had gone to college, and Marceline hadn't made the right grades, applied to the right places or shown proper interest. Whatever. She had been happy then, dating Bonnibel, if squeezing in the odd day or two during the month counted as such. Bonnie had offered to take Marceline with her when she went out of state, take care of her like some incompetent pet who couldn't even pay her own way. Well, she probably hadn't meant it that way, but Marceline had been taking care of herself since her mother died, though the Petrikovs helped when they could and her dad left money every now and then. 

She refused and they kept in touch while Bonnibel studied and Marceline worked odd jobs, trying to find the one that inspired her, or at least felt secure. Then Bonnibel went to grad school in Germany, of all places. It was a combination degree program and research position, some hard–to–get posting with butt–loads of students vying for it. Marceline could still remember her raving over the phone, waxing poetic about how unbelievable it was and how she needed to pack and hurry up and apply for her residency. 

Marceline started up the stairs. She hadn't heard from Bonnie in several years now. She supposed that was how some relationships ended, quietly withering away into disinterest as two people from different classes followed trajectories assigned to them at birth. So much for the American dream, she started to tell herself, before glancing down at the paper in her hand. 

The community college had accepted her into its returning students program. It would be for a certification in computer science, but it was better than nothing. If she scrimped, she could make the tuition for the next two years and then maybe she would get a real job. She already had the requisite experience, after all. 

"Hey, kiddo," her dad said from where he sat on her couch with his feet propped on her coffee table, in between an empty mug and several loose sheets of music. 

"What are you doing here?" she snapped, stopping short in the doorway. 

"Sitting on your couch, waiting for you to get home." 

"Yeah," she said slowly, closing the door behind her and locking it. "I meant, why?" 

He chuckled, pulling his feet off the table and planting shiny loafers on the worn floor. He was dressed up tonight in a fashionable suit, jacket hung over the back of the couch, tie loose, the bulge of a usually concealed pistol at his side where it hung in a shoulder holster. 

"Y'know, I wish I had a camera because I've never seen someone's face go from ecstatic to pissed as fast as yours did," he said instead. "What's that? One of those colleges finally accept you? Can't be personal; wrong shape." 

"How did you…" She shook her head. Of course he knew. Asshole. "Yeah. What about it?" 

He grunted, leaning back lazily and spreading out his arms. "What if I told you I had a better offer than winding up in some shitty cubicle, playing music on the side for peanuts?" 

"No," she said emphatically. 

"You even know what I do?" 

"I'm not stupid, dad," she muttered, putting down her gear and heading for the kitchenette and the left–over pizza in the refrigerator, hoping it was still there. "You're in the mob. I've known since I was in high school." 

"Half right," he granted easily, without any apparent remorse. "I am the mob, at least in this city." 

She stayed where she was, bent in front of the refrigerator, door wide open as if she needed to find something. The pizza was right in front of her nose but her arms stayed limp. Her father was claiming he ran the organized crime in this city. Gathering her wits, she picked up the wrapped pizza and turned to face him from behind the counter. 

"Bullshit," she declared. "If you ran the mob, we wouldn't have lived in this crappy apartment and I wouldn't have worn clothes from fucking Goodwill. And anyway, I'm not interested." 

"Ayuh," he said, scratching at the back of his neck and yawning. "Could have lived it up but then my only kid would have been out in plain sight, thinking the way she lived was normal, blabbing it to her friends and bringing the cops down on all of us. Or I could just keep you locked up but your mom didn't want that. 'sides, this way you learned how to get by on your own." 

"Oh, is that your story?" She snorted. "We lived dirt poor so the police wouldn't catch on? Bull. Shit," she repeated. "You're just a petty, alcoholic crook who's too shit to even do that job. And you're lecturing me on what sort of education and job I need?" 

Hands on his knees, he launched himself up off the couch, sauntering around the nicked coffee table. "I wanted to tell you earlier, but it looked like maybe you were gonna be on the straight an' narrow, what with that yuppy girl but she was just slummin' it with you, huh?" 

She forced down a swallow of pizza as a tic began under her eye. "She wasn't slumming it. She just had to go to college. She offered to bring me along." 

He smiled smugly. "You know what we call that, right?" 

"We're not having this discussion," she said flatly, giving up on eating until he left. "You already made it plain what you think of her." 

"You know, I got one child," he said, ignoring her irritation and repeating with a raised finger, "One. Back in the day, you being a girl would've been a problem but fortunately, this is the twenty–first century. You got the smarts, you got the gumption and you sure as hell got the attitude, but I went ahead and watched that queer–ass rich bitch turn you gay because I thought it might make you happy." 

He leaned on the counter, facing her directly. "Well it didn't, did it? You got nothing and you aren't happy." He swiped the acceptance letter off the counter, flapping it between them before dropping the paper disdainfully. "You think this is gonna be your ticket out? Aren't you paying attention to the economy? Rich kids with fancy degrees a helluva lot better than what you're gonna get are stuck flipping burgers, so why don't you listen to your old man for a change?" 

She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as she struggled with sixteen hours worth of fatigue. "If I listen to you, will you leave?" 

"Yep." He grinned at her wolfishly. 

She laid her hands on the counter and waited, looking him in his amber eyes. Her mother must have found his glossy black hair and golden skin really attractive to have missed his slimy character. She wished she had inherited less of him and more of her mother, though she barely remembered the woman. 

"I guess I understand why you think so low of me," he began speaking graciously, tone far more cultured and modulated than she was accustomed to hearing. But then again, she couldn't smell any alcohol on his breath. "I rarely come here. It's difficult to avoid being followed but besides that, you remind me of her. I wish you could have met her as an adult but she died. Leukemia. Caught it early, by accident," he continued, his eyes drifting around the room as his voice trailed off for a moment. 

"Yeah, I know. She died and you turned into a drunk." 

"She didn't need to die. Weren't you listening? We caught it early. It's treatable," he said forcefully, leaning forward as his eyes bored into hers. "But we didn't have the money. We begged and scraped and folks better off 'n us said they were sorry but none of them did nothing! So she died because I didn't get my head outta my ass quick enough to do somethin' about it." 

She studied her father. Was he telling the truth? Had he turned to organized crime in an effort to earn enough to pay medical bills? She had never known him when he had been a mere janitor, denied better careers because of his race and lack of formal education. She had never known him as a man who worked hard and came home to his wife and young daughter. Nor had she met her mother's family, who cut off their daughter when she married 'one of those'. 

"I want you to come with me and leave all this crap behind. You'll still have to work, really bust ass sometimes, but it'll be worth it. You'll have money, a nice place to live, and respect. Lots of respect. There'll be risks but that's what makes life worth living, kiddo. Hiding in a cubicle or lettin' scum paw at you, that ain't." He watched her for a moment, gauging her expression before adding quietly, "She ain't comin' back for you. You know that." 

She could feel her face and neck flushing, the prickling in her eyes that preceded tears, and took another shaky breath. She was so tired of trying and failing, doing her best and coming in last and damn him for being right. Even back in high school, several of her friends had related in ashamed whispers how older siblings had come back home to live with their parents because they couldn't find jobs. Smart kids with good degrees, like Bonnie. But not like her, because her family came from old money and that mattered more than a piece of paper. 

She looked down at the acceptance letter, watching as wet blotches appeared one by one. The elation she had felt minutes earlier popped like all her empty dreams. It would be so easy to go along with her father's scheme. She would have all the money she needed for a change, a driver's license instead of a state ID and strangers would be scared of her. Because of her dad, not because of her achievements. 

She imagined meeting Finn over the barrel of a gun. He had gone to college on a football scholarship and earned himself a law enforcement degree. He had tried being a beat cop briefly, but dissatisfied by the excessive paperwork coupled with crippling red tape, he finagled a transfer into ATF. He kept in touch but after he completed the training program, he was sent all over the country on various operations. It was weird, but sometimes she felt as proud of him as she would have her own child. 

"I know, but I won't do it," she said woodenly. "I won't hack computers for you or any other stupid shit you want me to do. I'm not gonna be like you." 

Her father looked her in the eyes for a second that seemed to last forever, studying something he found there. "Okay." 

"I wo– What?" 

"I said, okay." He looked down at the counter by her hand, expression thoughtful, a sad smile curling one side of his lips. "I figured you'd say no, but I hope you think about what I said. I'm not dumb like you think I am and neither are you." 

Before she could respond to that bit of underhanded praise, he spun away, stalking quickly to the couch and picking up his blazer. Underneath was a thick manila envelope, which he picked up. Returning to the counter, he dropped it with a thump. 

"You'll need this." 

"I'm not taking any of your money," she snarled. 

"You took it before." 

"When I didn't know any better." 

"And you don't know better now, either," he snapped. "It's not just cash and you will need it. Two days from now, the cops are gonna sweep through this apartment as part of a sting." He smirked. "The idiots think I don't know. Now, you can stay here if you want, but only if you're a fool. Because they will drag you in for questioning, make up some excuse to book you and hold on to you as long as possible, hoping to draw me out." He pressed his lips together. "But I won't fall for it, because I know you're a good kid with a clean record since you quit that loser boy you were hanging with and they'll have to let you go. But then that whole mess will be on your record and good luck getting a prissy office job then." 

The information took a few moments to sink in, like knives slicing her open until all the blood ran from her body, leaving her knees weak. She could see the tremor in her arms and wanted to sit down but there was no stool on her side of the counter. She held onto the counter more tightly, knuckles turning sickly yellow with the effort. 

In her peripheral vision she saw her father move, heard something dragging and then he was helping her down onto a bar stool. 

"Fuck," she whispered. "Fuck you," she tried to snarl through more tears. "You piece of shit. This is your fault! All I wanted was to be normal! But you had to screw that up for me too. I thought you said this was supposed to be the safe place. Load of BS," she muttered, cradling her head in her hands, elbows on her thighs. 

He laid a tentative hand on her shoulder. 

She was moving so fast that she practically fell off the stool, levering it up with both hands in a vicious swing that clipped her father on the side of his head and shoulder. He reeled into the refrigerator as the stool continued past him, the freezer handle snapping loose and ricocheting off a cabinet. 

Shaking, she dropped her ad hoc weapon, plastic legs sliding through sweaty fingers. She leaned on the island wall, watching her father pull himself up, one hand pressed to his temple. 

"Don't touch me," she whispered. 

Hunson Abadeer studied his hand, noting the blood that had come away from his temple. Wordlessly, he began searching for napkins, paper towels or a rag to press to his head. He glanced at her once but when she offered no direction, he resumed searching until he found some paper napkins in the trash. He started to raise them to his head, then winced and paused to knead his shoulder. 

He looked back at her calmly while pressing the napkins to his temple. "There's a couple of fake IDs, complete sets of paperwork to go with both and a gun in there with the cash. You can do whatever you want with it. You can stay here for the cops or one of my boys will take you where ever you want, but you need to make up your mind now. Surveillance will be here soon and I'm not gonna get caught," he finished, almost apologetic. 

Marceline looked away, shoving the stool with her foot. She wondered what the police forensics team would make of the damage. Would they think she had killed him? While she had always feigned ignorance of his illegal career, she had picked up enough to know he was probably right about the police. They would sweep her up and trash any possibility of a proper job. She would be collateral damage. 

She left the letter where it, was but picked up the manila envelope, noting the heft and tucking it under her arm on the way to her bedroom. She glanced around at all her furnishings, things she had scrimped, saved and bartered for and her stomach churned, bile in the back of her throat. Once in her bedroom, she dropped her envelope on a threadbare comforter and looked around, knowing she needed to pack only what she needed and could carry. 

Between clothes and two packs of extra strings — her amp was back at the club and she mentally winced at the loss — her eyes fell on an old stuffed teddy bear. It was faded and patched but it made her think of her surrogate parents, the Petrikovs and happier childhood moments. Then it reminded her of her first ex, that douche Ash and his equally shitty girlfriend Maja and how they had stolen Hambo from her. Which led to memories of Bonnibel returning the toy to her, refusing to explain how she had reacquired it. 

Of its own volition her hand closed over the toy, a brief wash of warmth edging into her emotions before being washed away by simmering fury. When she came out of her room, a duffel slung over her shoulder, her father was still waiting for her, sitting patiently on the stool she had abandoned. 

He stood up, eyes flicking to her duffel as she picked up her guitar bag after fetching out her wallet and some personal items out of her work satchel. "Where to?" 

She thought of the furthest place from here that also had a music scene. "Seattle." 

* * *

Marceline eyed the torn envelope laying forlornly atop some coffee grounds and wrinkled cellophane. She had found twenty thousand in cash in that thick manila envelope, along with the other promised items, but she had discarded the gun as soon as possible. She understood the dangers of the street for a woman, but violence had been too tempting a path for her at one time. In fact, anger and violence had always been easy for her, soothed only by musical expression or dampened by drugs and alcohol during a brief period during her teens. She abstained from both these days in complete defiance of common stereotypes. 

Aside from computers and music, there had been one other subject she had been decent at back in high school: Math. Not a genius at it like her one time friend Bonnibel Burgess, but good enough to calculate future expenses and take half her cash to a bank. Her time living alone as an adult had taught her to be ruthlessly frugal. Using one of those fake IDs, sweating in terror as she waited for her identity to check out, she invested the money, with the intention of leaving the portfolio untouched for years. 

The rest she used to find a new place to live, replace necessary equipment and eat enough to avoid starving. Perhaps it had been her frenetic state of mind, her sense of being completely adrift among absolute strangers, or simple karma, but she had thrown all of her efforts into her music. It was the one thing she truly enjoyed, was willing to do day in and day out and she decided to give it a shot before resigning herself to aimless failure. 

She gathered a band, paid a graphic design student to create a brand for her and looked to the internet. Regardless of the industry's stance, she believed that was the future of commercial music. When her music failed to break the Top Forty, despite positive critical reviews in independent publications, she reevaluated. She was running out of money but there was one last chance. She found an agent, a loose–limbed older man who was so flaming she was surprised he didn't catch on fire. 

He enjoyed attending the Renaissance Festival — was a member of a troubadour troop — and sometimes showed up wearing brightly colored hose and ridiculous hats. Despite a groan–worthy penchant for rhyming ditties, he did know the industry. He told her three things before agreeing to work with her: she needed to know the right people; those people needed to owe her something; and she needed to establish a unique identity. 

What he told her about the current music industry, desperate yet fearful and conservative record labels, and a community rife with back–stabbing politics, made her think of organized crime and she had recalled what her father had once said about stubborn obstacles. If they couldn't be bought, they could always be shot. She didn't have the cash to waste on bribes — unwilling to liquidate her investments — so she turned back to the internet. 

She dug. She snooped and slithered until she had collected enough ugly secrets to damage egos and reputations, wielding unwanted truths like an axe against those who were blocking her potential success. She liked to say that rather than sleeping her way to the top, she had hacked her way there, one imaginary head at a time. She left a trail of resignations, reassignments, fired office staff, caterers, personal assistants and created a reputation for ruthlessness that would have done her father proud. 

The funny part was that she didn't notice the similarity until the day Keila unwittingly walked into her computer room, catching Marceline with five windows open on her screen. None of them involved games, tuning, mixing or lyrics but were filled with rapid fire text conversations, coding and informational sites. Keila had stopped mid–sentence, a look of suspicion falling across her face as Marceline ceased typing and turned her head to see who had invaded her computer room. 

None of her three band mates knew exactly how it was that stubborn obstacles to the success of the Scream Queens had suddenly begun melting away. Too experienced to make a peep, Chance Gander must have known what she was doing and approved. Quiet and reserved, Guy carefully avoided treading on anyone's toes when he wasn't at his keyboard, but he was so brilliant at mixing on the fly during live performances that he could be a serial killer for all Marceline cared. Benjamin "Bongo" Palakiko would watch her with lidded eyes, tapping gently on his second favorite set of drums before cracking a joke or two. Only Keila had begun trailing her every move, curiosity evident in her manner and expression. 

Whatever Keila saw that day made her raise her hands in surrender, shaking her head slowly in denial. She had told Marceline that she wasn't about to flush her career down the toilet and Marceline had thought about it. Keila was an excellent lead guitarist, a quick study, cooperative with the team and rarely gossiped. Frankly, she was almost good enough to have her own band but she was crap at lyrics. Marceline also experienced a pang of fondness that she had carefully quashed, nipping the potential romance in the bud. Not with a coworker and never again if she could avoid it. 

It was her own fault. All four of them had gone on a bender the night after their first major concert. Her memories of it were hazy but Marceline had woken up in bed in a strange hotel with an equally appalled Keila. The more she muttered and apologized, the more Keila cackled, her amusement skyrocketing into hysterics when Marceline launched herself out of bed upon feeling something small and wriggly against her back. 

That turned out to be Schwable who, in his terror, peed the bed, the icing on that morning's cake. She vaguely recalled a determined mission to acquire 'one of those dumb mop dogs that stuck–up celebrities have'. She probably hadn't used the best logic either way. It was why she avoided drinking or any other form of intoxication. Fortunately, Keila had taken the one night stand equably and neither of them discussed it. 

Marceline looked away from the trashcan and automatically searched for Schwable before remembering the poodle mix was already at her preferred kennel. Having bought a dog, Marceline had decided to train the poor fellow properly so he wouldn't turn into a nervous, destructive yappy monster. He was quiet, sweet and often kept her company when she was working, knowing not to stick his cold nose into her chin until she took a break. He wouldn't quit chasing her basketball but so long as he didn't get hurt when it invariably rolled him over, she didn't mind. 

But he was being spoiled rotten at the kennel, so she returned to eating her breakfast, as it were, while watching the sun set over the distant mountains of Olympic National Park. When the weather was good, she could see clear across Puget Sound from her kitchen through the wrap–around living room window. Even if it were hazy or cloudy, it was still a peaceful view, the air sharp from where her home was built into the side of a low mountain, skirting the edge of Snoqualmie National Forest. 

It was nice having money. It was nice having an entire sound room, a basketball court, a modern kitchen with lovely utensils that allowed her to indulge in the soothing familiarity of cooking. It was nice having a pet that loved her unconditionally and even the koi pond that froze over half the year. 

During winter when the gravel road up to her home was treacherous, she thrilled in taking her four–by–four out for a spin, sliding through the turns or even sledding down the mountain while dodging trees and rocks. Of course there was that trudge back up the road but that was just good exercise. 

Finished eating, she dropped some scraps in the garbage disposal and cleaned up after herself. She wouldn't be back for a month and her scheduled cab would arrive soon. She stuck with one company that usually sent the same driver who knew how to find her house. It would be a good hour and a half to the airport, unless there was more traffic than anticipated. She would need to kick back her heels at the airport but that was better than being in a rush. 

Her therapist had pointed out that she was prone to anxiety and that underlying fear and uncertainty were what drove her temper. Her sensei said more or less the same thing, along with scolding her for thinking when she needed to be acting. She dealt with it by keeping to herself and giving herself more time than needed for various tasks or events. All those years in school being called slow, or chided for not paying attention, and it turned out she just had a perpetual case of nerves and thinking too much, not too little. 

The upcoming month wouldn't be a vacation, although it was a temporary break from filming her latest set of videos which would be released online for free, and high–definition versions bundled with her album for purchase. Those helped sell her songs and, more importantly, concert tickets. This week, she would take part in last minute rehearsals with her band mates for the opening concert at Laxness Arena in Dusseldorf, Germany. They had been there the last couple of years but international shows still left her nerves on edge. 

She tensed when she heard her front door open, quickly reminding herself that she had a guest. 

"Ride's here!" Finn Mertens bellowed from outside where he had doubtlessly been pacing impatiently. 

Marceline picked up her carry–on, a combination laptop case and satchel, then hit the lights after a final look around to make certain she hadn't forgotten anything crucial. The bulk of her luggage, including all the band's musical equipment, had been shipped ahead of them and was already inventoried and checked over by her agent and manager, Chance. 

She got in the back seat with Finn, flipping her hair out of the way to avoid sitting on it, her lankiness leaving room for the breadth of his shoulders. Fortunately, their taxi was a large SUV so there was plenty of space for both of them to stretch out their equally long legs. Puberty had hit her in lazy fits and starts and she hadn't gained her full height until her early twenties, but Finn had shot up like a weed early in his teens. 

His knuckles were cold where they bumped her arm and she batted his hand away. Temperatures dropped quickly up here once the sun set, aided by a wind that often swept down from higher peaks. 

"Well, you're just Miss Cranky–pants tonight," he groused. "Something happen you need to vent about?" 

She lifted one shoulder in a light shrug. 

"Tell me before I start whining. You know how good I am at it," he threatened cheerfully. 

She slid her gaze over to his face and saw his evil little grin. He had probably been up most the day, unlike her with her night owl schedule, and blond stubble shadowed his jaw. She was intellectually aware that he was considered devastatingly handsome and charming, even with the faint scar winding over his cheek, but that was icky. While the age difference between them was moot, given that they were both adults, she felt as if she and Bonnie had practically raised him during the course of babysitting all those years ago. 

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Got another letter from my father." 

He winced, knowing she used father to mean Hunson Abadeer and dad to mean Simon Petrikov. "Anything good?" 

"Dunno. Trashed it like usual." 

He made a non–committal noise rather than repeat his long–standing opinion that she ought to at least find out what he wanted. But he thought her father was a drunken bum rather than a mobster, mob boss, whatever. She could tell him, of course, but then Finn would be trapped between his moral obligations as an officer of the ATF and her friend. 

So she changed the subject. "What you think of that last set I gave you?" 

She always sent advance copies on disk to Finn and Simon, asking for their feedback. One was the better judge of style, the other a better judge of lyrics and tone. Some aspects of emotional communication stayed the same, century to century, so Simon's age didn't matter. But he hadn't responded this time. 

Finn cocked his head back perceptively, then shrugged in compliance, rattling off his opinions about her newest batch of music. 

The taxi ride took almost two hours due to some traffic caused by a crash, but that still left both of them plenty of time to get through the boarding process. The only snag was when Marceline handed her thick passport book to the agent behind the stout window of the Customs and Immigration booth. 

The woman glanced at the identity page, started to flip to an empty page, then flipped back to that second page. She stared at it, looked up at Marceline, then back at the passport, brown eyes going wide. When she looked back at Marceline, she wore a manic grin and hopeful expression, waving her hand toward the passport in silent question. 

Marceline ducked her head in admission as Finn chuckled beside her. 

The woman searched frantically through her purse, coming up with a cigarette lighter, then found a marker in her desk supplies. She pushed both toward Marceline, practically doing a little dance in her booth. 

After making a shushing gesture, Marceline signed the lighter. The agent stamped her passport after Marceline reminded her with a smirk of amusement, and she barely looked at Finn's. She looked him over, waggled her head at Marceline with raised eyebrows and sent them on their way. 

Finn sniggered but he was accustomed to being mistaken for Marceline's lover. She always invited him to her concerts, giving him a ticket, though his work schedule rarely allowed him to attend. Nevertheless, people made assumptions which were fueled into a frenzy by the paparazzi. 

Marceline shook her head. Those rumors had made her blush in horrified embarrassment once upon a time, but now served as a social buffer. Fans were so eager to please and score with a celebrity that it was easy to be swayed by their worshipful attention. Especially when her head was swimming with the high and come–down that followed a show. But these days, sites rumored that Finn was her on and off lover and it helped to repel some of those hopefuls. 

They were the only passengers at their gate because she had chartered a private flight. It was more expensive than going first class on a public flight but she valued the peace and quiet. She didn't need the aggravation of people, especially fans pestering her when she wanted to sleep. As an added benefit, because the plane was small, the bulk of its body devoted to fuel, she would have a better sense of its motion. It wouldn't be the same as piloting her Cessna but she would still be able to pick up the vibrations in her feet and spine, sense the rise and fall in altitude and imagine herself behind the yoke. 

Her love of flying was another discovery on the list of things she never would have known without money. Anyone who claimed that it couldn't buy happiness clearly came from a background of wealth, or at least enough money to avoid the miserable fear that came with lacking sufficient food, or freezing during winter and broiling during summer. Never mind access to education, something she had squandered in her youth. The irony never escaped her that between voice coaches, martial arts instructors and a pilot's license, she had learned more after high school than during it. 

She and Finn stretched out in their respective seats, both with enough room to fully recline into beds as they transitioned to Munich time. There would be a brief layover to top off the plane's fuel reserves at JFK, followed by the eight–hour leg into Dusseldorf. Coupled with the eight hour difference between time zones, they would arrive at nearly the same time the next day as they were leaving. She intended to play a game or two with Finn before taking a nice solid nap so she could start her night fresh when they arrived. 

Finn was already pulling out his laptop, glancing at her in question. 

She flashed him a grin as she removed her own ultrabook from her carry–on, the slim aluminum framed computer her habitual travel companion. She flipped it open, quickly setting up a wireless LAN and waited for Finn to connect. 

"So when do I meet your mystery girlfriend?" 

"She's not my girlfriend," he muttered, eyes on his screen as he set up his character. 

"Right," she drawled while setting up her own and selecting a map. "She's just some hot chick you managed to randomly meet while on a training assignment in Germany. Y'know, as people do." In her peripheral vision, she saw him give her the stink eye. 

"We're just friends," he insisted neutrally. 

"Uh huh," she agreed, just as neutrally. "You and Ban break up then?" 

Banhishikha Kaur, better known between them as 'FP', had been young Finn's partner in babysitting crime. The two had formed an unholy alliance of childish destruction, scheming and general chaos. But they had parted ways as he went to college and Banhishikha confronted her father. When she turned eighteen, he insisted she return to India and marry her arranged spouse. She refused, went to college on a partial scholarship and acquired a degree in business management. Marceline wasn't privy to the story of how she strong–armed her father into handing over his demolition company to her. All she knew was that he was the one who wound up being shipped back to India. 

Between Finn's traveling assignments and Banhishikha's need to keep an active role in managing her company, they rarely spent time together. They had dated on and off for years and it seemed they were parting ways, but Marceline felt herself grossly unqualified to intervene or offer advice. That didn't mean she wouldn't pry for details. 

Finn's hands stilled on his keyboard as he gazed at the screen. "No. Maybe. I dunno," he answered quietly. "It's just hard and she never has time…" He sighed and shrugged. "But that doesn't make Bo– She's not my girlfriend, okay? It's just that I had the extra ticket and she's a big fan so I thought, hey, I'll get her in the front row." 

Marceline blinked at the change in subject mid–sentence, realizing that he didn't mean Banhishikha wasn't his girlfriend after a confused second. "Wait, hold up," she said, raising her palm. "I'm not allowed to know your mystery not–girlfriend's name? What is she? A government agent? Did you meet a German spy when you were there?" 

Finn guffawed and had to wipe some spit off his screen using the cuff of his shirt. "Nah. She's not a spy. Don't worry. You'll get to meet her. She's picking me up from the airport." He smiled. "She'd probably give you a ride too, if you want." 

She chuckled at his inadvertent innuendo before demurring. "I'm gonna catch the train. It stops two blocks from my hotel and I don't wanna mess up your guys' personal time." 

Finn rolled his eyes at her continued misconceptions. "You better get your gun up before I shoot you." 

Looking down hastily, Marceline noted that his character was indeed pointing a gun at hers from an uncomfortably close distance. 

Fifteen hours later, quitting the game only when Finn insisted he needed to sleep, they arrived in Dusseldorf around dinner time. Both of them were hungry, bored and ready to do anything except sit on their butts. So it was a good thing neither of them had checked baggage or packed any contraband in their carry–ons because it meant they escaped the airport that much earlier. 

Marceline followed Finn to a parking garage, curious enough to put off eating, no doubt part of his strategy. He had been a sly little pest from an early age after all. He led her to a high–priced priority lot and as they approached, she could make out a tall figure leaning against a coupe. 

The lighting was good enough that she could immediately make out a predominant color: pink. The sporty car was hot pink with contrasting gray and black carbon fiber body panels, the flare of a spoiler that was functional on that particular make and model. It was ridiculously expensive to own and operate, especially on European fuel prices and that told her that Finn's not–girlfriend was enormously wealthy. 

Her steps slowed and she lagged behind as she made out the woman. She was tall, relaxing against her car with an easy grace and still patience that made the hair on Marceline's neck stand up. The pale pink and cream pant suit accentuated her figure and it was matched by her hair, more pink. 

Marceline came to a dead stop, the hand clasping her satchel to her side growing sweaty against the black leather. 

Hearing her footsteps go silent, Finn paused, turning slightly to look at her with a somber expression. He waited. 

The muscles in her legs twitched against the effort not to turn around and walk away as fast as she could. Grinding her teeth together, giving Finn a warning glower filled with promises of retaliation, she walked forward. 

Up close, she could see the freckles beneath a light layer of foundation. Bonnibel had never been ashamed of her skin and she had no reason to be. Marceline was more surprised by the hair, that she still dyed it a color that would be deemed unprofessional over in the States. But money was an excellent motivator to ignore the odd habits of rich bitches. 

She chided herself for that thought as she came to a stop a few feet from Bonnibel. Her ex had never been a bitch. She had been too absorbed by her work and focused on her goals to waste energy on malice. It would have been overkill. 

Finn had the good grace to fidget and clear his throat. "So, um, I guess you know this is Bonnie, right?" 

"Mm hm." Marceline rolled her wrist, flexing and stretching her hand so that her knuckles cracked. 

The sooner they got through this charade, the sooner she could leave and settle her nerves at her hotel. Finn knew she got stressed out before concerts. He knew how even little things could get her bent out of shape then. He knew, and still he was bringing her ex and sticking her in the front row where Marceline would have to put up with her the whole time. He was never getting another comp ticket. 

Bonnibel took a half step forward before retreating, fingering the hem of her blazer before thrusting out a hand as if they were business acquaintances. "So, uh, hi. This is really awkward but I couldn't talk him out of it. It's, um…You're different." 

Marceline looked at Bonnibel's hand, then ignored it. "You're not." 

It was a lie. Bonnibel's soft edges and earnest friendliness were gone. She remembered a teenager who was unafraid to grab her in a hug, who oozed kindness from every pore when she wasn't giving her a patented look of exasperation. This woman was studiously coiffed, poised behind a wall of formality, and cripplingly beautiful. 

Marceline had to avoid looking at her directly, keeping her gaze unfocused. The muscles in her legs were twitching again and her mouth was too dry to speak properly. It wasn't fair, her body betraying her good sense with a rush of heat and unwanted desire. So she did the only reasonable thing and slipped on her stage mask, posture changing to fit her character as she smiled lazily. 

"I…Okay." Bonnibel visibly gathered herself, taking a deep breath but otherwise unfazed by Marceline's rude dismissal. "I thought you might like a ride to your hotel." 

"Awww," Marceline drawled, "you're even following his script. But if you really meant it, you wouldn't have brought a two-seater." 

Bonnibel flinched as if she had been slapped but made no reply. 

Marceline nodded slightly, more to herself than her audience, clutching onto an icy ball of rage as tightly as her satchel. She watched as Bonnibel flicked her pale green eyes at Finn before dropping her gaze toward the stained concrete. 

"I think I'll catch the train," she said dryly and turned away. 

* * *

Marceline balanced on a cross rail forty feet above the stage set up in Lanxess Arena. From behind a facade that would conceal her from the future audience, she could see the lip of the empty stadium. Well, except for her support staff milling down below, an EMT standing by just in case and her spotter on the catwalk beside her. It was a long drop to the stage floor, nearly a hundred feet. 

She leaned forward to keep tension on the guide wires connected to the harness around her thighs and waist. It was concealed in her show costume, but this one was plain and obvious, nylon straps biting into flesh despite her jeans. She ignored the familiar discomfort and focused on her balance and position. So long as she maintained tension on the rigging, the clasps wouldn't release, but that was the trick. It would slow her descent, but it was up to her to remain oriented and get her feet correctly aligned for a safe and graceful landing. 

She rocked side to side, sliding her feet around the rail, using the heels of her worn cowboy boots to keep her latched loosely in place. She held an eight-pound sledge hammer in her right hand, the size and heft an approximation of her bass, and she counter-balanced against it. Her hand was sweaty around the yellow plastic handle even though she had practiced this maneuver countless times. Keila often sighed, huffed and warned her that this stunt would get her killed someday and Chance agreed. 

The spotter began counting quietly and she heard the winch hum behind her, the numbers a soft beat in her mind. Then she dropped off the railing, not jumping because that would create a moment of deadly slack in the line, spreading her arms for balance. As the winch arced her down in a sweep, she used all her martial and athletic training to maintain her position, creating the illusion of a person flying over the stage before flipping up vertically to land in a crouch, sledge hammer held high and up to avoid striking the wood. 

The shock of the landing reverberated up her bones, lancing through her ankles, knees and spine as she fumbled with her left hand, searching for the input cable. Glancing down, she noted the neon orange ‘X' was under her right boot, which explained her fumble. She swiped up the cable from between her feet anyway. Her shoulder muscles began to quiver as she stood, lowering her arm and dropping the dummy cable. Bracing herself, she listened to the lines hiss and withdraw after a brief tug at the small of her back. 

They swept like deadly steel whips toward the rear of the stage, disappearing upward as the winch rapidly recoiled them. During a show, her landing point would be marked by a high intensity spot light that invariably blinded her for the first few seconds. She would be in a narrow pool, surrounded by a roar created by thousands of elated voices as Bongo initiated the beat. She wouldn't have time to blink them into view, forced to insert the amp cable and synchronize with the drums, all while greeting her fans with blurry vision. 

That entire process would be concealed by artificial fog and smoke, along with the projections cast by cameras mounted on far points of the arena ceiling. To the audience, it would appear as if she had flown down to the stage and landed front and center, the Vampire Queen come to entertain them. She had seen test footage, along with official reels and — even knowing how it worked — she couldn't help but feel impressed. Her fly guys were brilliant. 

She shifted her weight from foot to foot, grimacing slightly at the twinges of pain still radiating from her knees. They had begun doing that over the past year, especially when she performed her more aggressive and spectacular stunts. Giving in, she leaned over to massage one of the offending joints. 

"Human knees are notoriously unstable and among the first joints to deteriorate as we age, especially if exposed to unusual or routine stress." 

Marceline jerked upright, that voice hitting every wrong nerve, jangling in her ears as her heart jumped, adrenaline spiking unwanted through her body as she inhaled. 

"Who the fuck let her in here?" she demanded, whirling on Bonnibel. Her eyes fell on Finn, who stood beside her, eyes going wide as he froze mid-motion. "Finn?" 

He didn't speak for a moment, lips parted on some greeting never voiced. He stammered, leaning back from whatever he saw on Marceline's face, as he answered, "I just…She wanted to see…Marce, what the hell?" He found his own temper, lips compressing mulishly. "Since when is it a big deal if I bring someone backstage?" 

"Since it's her," she gritted out, swinging the sledge hammer loosely so it bumped gently against her calf. In her peripheral vision, she spotted two members of stage security beginning to converge on them at a casual amble. 

"Well, maybe you should have warned me," he drawled back in irate sarcasm, dropping a hand on his hip and glancing apologetically at Bonnibel. "Geez. Sorry about the scene." 

Marceline took a deep breath, mentally counting as she exhaled, but she wanted to scream. It was three days until the show and she did not need to be thrown off her groove by an unwanted ex and a sweet but misguided former charge. 

"I'm sorry if he overstepped but that was incredible to watch," Bonnibel injected diplomatically, hands tucked loosely into the pockets of her cream colored slacks. "I mean, I knew how you had to be doing that, but it's fascinating to see the technical process rather than just the final result." 

Marceline bowed her head slightly as she turned to face Bonnibel directly. As she raised her gaze, she made eye contact with the head of her security team but didn't shake her head in negation. As much as she loved putting on a show and being praised for it rather than jeered, called a show-off or accused of self-aggrandizing, she could also make herself sick with anxiety in the days leading up to one. 

She advanced until they were only a couple of feet apart, looking down on Bonnibel only because she was still up on the stage. It had the unfortunate effect of allowing her to see down Bonnibel's cleavage because her pale green dress shirt was partially unbuttoned. She jerked her eyes up to see Bonnibel smirking faintly in the dimmer lighting of stage left. 

She bumped the sledge hammer against her leg again, waiting for the two security members to get into ready position. She knew this was acting too, keeping her audience focused on her while the real work was being done unseen. Funny, more things she had learned outside of high school, never having joined theater or band despite playing music from any early age. 

Bonnibel backed up suddenly, a single step that left her in a subtle martial stance disguised as a casual shift in posture. Marceline felt her own body shift into a defensive stance at the same time as Finn did likewise. The inexplicable Mexican standoff might have made her laugh under different circumstances. 

"I really am sorry about this," Bonnibel repeated, troubled lines appearing between her brows. "Finn invited me back here. I thought it was okay. I didn't mean to mess you up or anything. I just wanted to see…" She pulled her hands out of her pockets, keeping them loose and slightly away from her sides. 

Puzzlement wriggled its way past Marceline's temper until Finn made an exaggerated motion with his eyes, tipping his head in the direction of her sledge hammer. She snorted and made a show of setting it aside. It would disappear in a few minutes, spirited away by a stage hand and returned to her trailer. But sure enough, Bonnibel's posture relaxed. 

Marceline smiled. "Susan, please remove Ms Burgess from my set." 

Finn's expression fell, going slack before it shifted to outrage but Bonnibel was slower to react. She did though, backing up out of the immediate line of approach, apparently having been aware of the two closing security members. She raised her arms as if she intended to fight but then abruptly dropped them, standing straight, chin up, glowering a promise of death at Marceline. 

"C'mon, Miss," Susan said cordially, a pleasant smile on her face. At well over six feet tall and a walking, talking mass of muscles, few people argued with Susan Hohmann. Which was convenient because then they never discovered that she was mentally handicapped. "Miss Marcy says it's time for you to go." 

As the second security guy reached out to assist Susan, Bonnibel slapped their hands away before raising her arms in surrender. "I'll walk," she snapped. "I promise not to run, okay?" 

"Okay," Susan agreed, pointing. "This way, Miss." 

Marceline hooked her thumbs over the waist of her jeans, grinning in success. It had taken numerous lessons for Susan to memorize all the rules of proper social conduct and the compromises involved in her job. Overall, she didn't use excessive force inappropriately and always stopped if ordered to do so by someone she recognized as an authority figure. Moreover, without her current job, she would probably be homeless, one of so many orphaned, mentally ill or handicapped individuals relegated to the streets in the United States. 

It was also sweet watching Bonnibel get frog-marched off Marceline's turf, even if Finn was glaring daggers at her. 

"Was that really necessary?" he asked, after a visible effort to calm himself. 

"Nah," she admitted, "but damn, it felt good." 

He ran his hands through his closely shorn hair before throwing them up in disgust. "What happened that was so bad?" he demanded in futility, knowing from past experience that she wouldn't answer. "You guys were great together for years! Now this?" He waved at the disappearing trio. "I don't get it." 

She almost told him. She almost said, "You'll understand the day you get dropped like a used tissue," but she didn't. Her thoughts fell on his revelation about Ban. Maybe he had been but didn't realize it yet. She watched Susan disappear around a corner with satisfaction. Just thinking about Bonnibel coming back, sniffing around like she expected Marceline to crawl back in gratitude made her want to spit nails. No better than Ash, and she wouldn't repeat that mistake. 

"Look, Finn, I know you meant well," she said instead as she felt post-confrontation jitters set in, sending her into agitated motion. She began removing her fly harness. There was no way she could jump again this morning with her concentration shattered. "But you known damn well that me and Bonnie had a bad break-up. You had no business dragging her here, letting her think it was hunky dory." 

He sighed, arms crossed as he gazed out over the empty arena, lighting up under false dawn. "I dunno. I guess you can't see it, but you're both real different from back then but you're still my friends. It blew me away to run into her like that at the…Er. Sorry, can't tell you about that. But it was so cool and I thought maybe…" He flapped a hand, stopping there with another sigh of defeat. 

Marceline scuffed her boot against the wooden floor, feeling the first hints of guilt. "It's not your fault," she placated, hanging her rigging off the handle of the sledge hammer. "But you can't set people up like that. It doesn't work in real life." 

"Yeah, I noticed." 

She started to sit on the steps leading down to back stage when she heard pounding footsteps approaching from a distance. She cocked her head, meeting Finn's eyes, wondering if she needed to pick up that sledge hammer again. Probably not. That would be brandishing a weapon and she didn't need that paperwork any more than than she needed exes backstage. 

Chance rounded the corner, skidding to a clumsy, gangling halt as he held a floppy hat onto his head, wispy, curling gray hairs sprouting from underneath. "Where is she?!" 

Marceline blinked at him. 

"Miss Burgess," he clarified in growing panic. "Bonnibel Burgess. Where is she?" 

Marceline made a moue and shrugged. "Wherever Susan dumped her." 

"Oh sweet Jesus, tell me you didn't do that," he moaned, bending over as he clutched the back of his head. "Tell me you did not just act like a prima donna! We're doomed," he continued to wail, pulling his hat over his eyes, then shoving it back up over his hair again. 

"Why? Is she the Lord Mayor of Dusseldorf?" 

"Give her another year or two and she might be," Chance answered, far too seriously for her comfort, thrusting his lips out in disapproval. "But no, that's not the problem." He yanked his two-way radio off his belt and barked, "Susan, this is Chance. Stop where you are! Keep Miss Burgess with you! Do you understand?" 

"Yes Mister Chance. We'll stay right here." 

"Okay, good. Can you tell me where you are?" 

"We're outside on the sidewalk where that really good hot dog stand always goes." 

"Good, that's great. Just stay there until Miss Marcy comes, okay?" 

"Okay." 

Chance looked at Marceline expectantly, hooking his radio back onto his belt. 

"No," she said, crossing her arms stubbornly. "I am not going out there to apologize to her just because she's some big wig in this town." 

"Fifty thousand dollars says you are," he countered, crossing his own arms, hips canted to one side. 

"What? She bribe you?" 

"No," he said, drawing out the word as if she were being a recalcitrant child. "That's how much the Süßigkeiten Königreich Stiftung donates to us every year." 

"Gesundheit," she said, understanding the German well enough but wholly unimpressed until Finn cleared his throat and swore. "What?" 

"Bonnie runs that," he muttered, as if Chance couldn't easily hear it too. 

Chance waggled an eyebrow at her in confirmation. 

"Oh, fucking hell," she swore, tromping down the steps and walking past them. 

Bonnibel Burgess, her royal ex, was apparently one of her tour's primary donors. Had Chance known all along, quietly sneaking that paperwork past her nose for years? She grimaced. It wasn't as if she questioned his decisions, the legal and financial back end was well out of her skill range. It was why she hired other people to do that stuff for her. They didn't even need the money these days, but that wouldn't mitigate the social debt. 

Pushing open the most likely service door, she propped it open and spotted Susan and Bonnibel chatting amiably with each other as if they were long time friends. Typical. Bonnibel could win over anyone and turn them into a supporter without even trying. She oozed charm like a pink Boston cream doughnut. 

She stalked up to them, keeping her attention on the concrete until she was forced to make indirect eye contact with Bonnibel. "You can go, Susan. You did a really great job. Thank you." 

Susan beamed, puffing out her chest in pride until the bold white word ‘Security' was stretched tight over her equally intimidating bosom. "Okay. Bye." 

Marceline ground her teeth behind a forced smile of approval until Susan fell out of view, trotting happily back into the arena. The entire time, Bonnibel smiled back at her with seemingly genuine approval. She imagined slamming her fist into those perfectly bowed lips, bloodied teeth on the sidewalk. She neither needed nor wanted her condescending endorsement of her hiring practices. 

"So. Apparently I can't ditch you because you're one of our big-shot donors." 

Bonnibel bit her upper lip, directing her eyes toward the rosy pink and peach sky. "Kinda sorta. Guess you were kept outta the loop, huh?" She finished with a tight smile, the kind that was really a glare in disguise. 

Marceline remembered seeing that particular smile too many times during the twilight of their romance, Bonnibel's impatient desire to return to her work, in favor of a lover, as plain as the freckles on her face. 

"Chance probably figured I'd turn the money down if I knew it came from you, and he was probably right." She rubbed at the bridge of her nose with the heel of her palm. She was usually going to sleep around now but the show schedule was forcing her to stay up several hours past her bedtime. "But I know that would make me a dipshit, so I'm sorry I had you dragged off. I didn't know and I was concentrating and then you messed me up," she bit out, unwilling to offer more information. 

Bonnibel nodded her head thoughtfully while buttoning up her shirt, then the two meager buttons of her open style blazer. It would warm up into the low seventies soon enough, but it was brisk this early in the morning. Her expression was controlled, neither accepting nor rejecting Marceline's explanation. 

"I think we should agree that we both messed up and call it a day," Bonnibel said without recrimination. "Even if I don't understand what happened, I know we ended on a bad note, so I should have thought twice about accepting Finn's offer. I just couldn't resist." 

Marceline pressed a fist against her thigh at that haughty, self-righteous tone. Bonnibel always knew the answer, always had to be the best and come out on top. It was fine so long as she considered someone her friend or ally because she would scoop them up with her. But once dropped, she would treat them like a stepping stone without hesitation. 

Right about then, Marceline recalled Finn's comment that his new-found not-girlfriend was a big fan of Marceline and the Scream Queens. A big enough fan to donate a good chunk of cash every year to the band. She frowned, a perplexed uneasiness taking the place of anger and fear. Ex and fan just didn't go together. There were times when she truly loathed logical conclusions, like now. But knowing a person admired her show persona didn't mean that person cared about the real her. 

"Yeah, I get it, but I'm done for the night. Guess I should be chivalrous and walk you to your car," Marceline suggested, unable to be any more gracious in between her fatigue and suspicion. 

Bonnibel sniffed critically, looking at her with half-lidded eyes, hands back in her pockets as she rested her weight on one leg. "Well, that was almost courteous, coming from you. This way," she added, pivoting neatly on her heel and striding off toward a nearby parking lot. 

Marceline jogged the first few steps to catch up, stretching her gait to match Bonnibel's. She held her arms against her body to conserve warmth, sensitive to the cold in her worn t-shirt. At least walking quickly would warm her up a bit. 

"Chance says you might have a go at being mayor here," she teased in curiosity. 

"What?" Bonnibel asked, startled. "No, I work out in Berlin." She blew a raspberry. "No chance of me running that place and I wouldn't want the headache anyway." 

Marceline started calculating how long it would take Bonnibel to drive from Berlin to Dusseldorf and began to frown. Even taking into account the unrestricted portions of the autobahns, the trip was several hours. 

"I'm in a hotel, you dingbat. Vacay," Bonnibel explained, apparently noting Marceline's increasingly puzzled expression. 

Right. So Bonnibel took time off from her precious work to see a concert. Marceline added that fact to the fan pile while scanning the approaching lot for Bonnibel's sports car. They were near the designated crew lot, having circled the arena. 

She shrugged uncomfortably. "Figured you would just pop in and pop out. Y'know, busy." 

Surprisingly, Bonnibel had no answer for that challenge. She glanced over at Marceline, trying to hold her gaze, lips pressing tight, corners turning down. "I always try to make time for the things I care about." 

Marceline slid her hands into her jean pockets, watching her. 

Bonnibel let out an exasperated breath, pinching the bridge of her nose while swearing quietly. "That's not what I meant. I…" She held up her hands. "Fine. Nothing I say is going to help but," her tone grew increasingly sarcastic, "I'm sorry I was hideously busy and worked myself to exhaustion to achieve a life goal." Her shoulders fell after the outburst. "I thought you knew me better than that." 

Marceline swallowed painfully, dropping her gaze as she recalled the day her father turned her life upside down. Looking back on her younger self, she knew he had been right; she had been waiting for Bonnibel to come back and fetch her. She had been waiting like a loyal dog, unable to or unwilling to believe that she had been abandoned. It had been easier to believe her father's words than face another day of that. 

"It was a long time ago," she said. "Look, it's freezing out here and I want to get to bed. Like you said, we both messed up." 

Pursing her lips, Bonnibel raised an entertained eyebrow, cocking her head. 

It took Marceline a few seconds to recognize her unwitting innuendo, but then she felt the prickling heat going up from her chest to her face. "I'm tired," she blurted out. "I sleep during the day, okay?" 

Bonnibel scuffed her dress boot on the pavement as they slowed to a stop behind her car, nodding slightly. "I figured that was PR," she said absently, looking out over the horizon as buildings and windows around them blazed pink and orange with reflected sunlight. 

Marceline shrugged. "Nope." 

"Do you…I mean…I guess…" Bonnibel laughed weakly. "I was going to grab some breakfast. I thought you might want…but I guess not. Sorry." 

Marceline studied Bonnibel's bowed posture, the tight lines of her averted face. She couldn't recall a time when Bonnibel had stuttered and stammered like a nervous teenager; she had skipped over that stage of development entirely. It was weird, so she shifted her attention to the sleek rocket sled on wheels. Her own car was a somewhat beaten up four-by-four, high grade on the inside but rough on the outside. Bonnibel's car was high grade all around, but it would skid off the road in the Seattle mountains no matter what that UK TV show claimed. 

She gestured with her chin at the car. "How's it ride?" 

Bonnibel's head snapped up, her expression caught between confusion and hope. She began to rub at the back of her neck, then stopped before disturbing her carefully arranged hair. "Like a holy terror. You'd love it." 

Marceline's forced smirk turned into a real one as she circled to the passenger side. "You're buying and I have to be home by ten." 

She suspected her stomach had taken control of her cognitive functions, but she yanked repeatedly on the door handle until Bonnibel hit the unlock button on her key fob. Once inside, she immediately reached for the seat belt, recalling Bonnibel's teenage driving habits. She had calculated the probably of getting a ticket in various areas down to the decimal point, successfully avoiding all but one retarded parking violation. 

Bonnibel got into the driver's side more cautiously, the stiff set of her head and shoulders giving away that she was watching Marceline peripherally. She flicked her eyes over once, then bit her bottom lip briefly before sinking her key into the ignition. The car vibrated subtly as the engine thrummed to life and she backed it carefully out of the marked parking spot. 

Marceline tried to guess when Bonnibel would hit the gas with a lead foot as they passed the security guard. Spotting her in the vehicle, he grinned and waved cheerfully. She rolled her eyes before she was abruptly pressed back into her seat but a burst of hard acceleration. Then Bonnibel rolled off the gas, keeping her car at the posted limits the entire way through town. 

Marceline resisted the urge to crack a joke about Bonnibel having turned into a square, though between the business suit, politically correct manner and stuffy driving style, it seemed to be the case. It wasn't the woman she remembered, the one who took apparently reckless risks, terrifying and shocking everyone around her with calculated success after success. Maybe all that success had gotten Bonnibel somewhere that had nowhere to leap. 

She broke out of her reverie when the engine died and she realized they were parked — more like jammed — between two other vehicles on the side of the road. Knowing she had probably been caught daydreaming, she got out, searching for their likely target. They were amongst a horde of tiny shops and boutiques, and people were already milling up and down the street, bicyclists dashing along and dodging the shuttle buses and trains. Bonnibel only found parking because it was so early, given the regional infrastructure that encouraged public transit over driving. 

"This way!" Bonnibel said loudly over the growing background din, pointing down the street. "My hotel's a few blocks up there," she added, pointing a different direction. 

Marceline shrugged, shaking off the bite of cool air after exiting the warm car. She would have grabbed her jacket if she had known she was going on a breakfast date. Jogging to catch up, she followed Bonnibel, neither of them speaking. Marceline did her best not to let her eyes linger on Bonnibel's face, those lips set in a determined line or the piercing eyes that could see anything and everything, dissecting a person down to the truth. 

She remembered those eyes drowsy and unguarded, pupils still dilated with the remnants of lust and desire. She remembered the way Bonnibel could trail her lips feather light until Marceline was jumping and twisting at every lick or nibble. Marceline ripped her gaze away and fixed her eyes on the pavement. That was her body and weak will betraying her again, though at least she wasn't quite so cold anymore because of it. 

When Bonnibel stopped, she found that they were in front of a small bakery. The smell of coffee mixed with fresh bread wafted out when Bonnibel held the door. Marceline stepped through without hesitation, the warm air as inviting as the scents of food. A few patrons stood in line, a couple sitting by the windows, but it wasn't crowded yet. 

Marceline eyed them warily for a moment, then dismissed the handful of customers. The lovely thing about wearing makeup and a prosthesis on stage and during orchestrated public appearances was that she was rarely recognized when out and about. Additionally, she almost always paid with cash to avoid flashing her name on a credit card. No one would harass her here. 

"Most the menu's in German but some's in English. I can translate it for you, if you want," Bonnibel offered while fetching her wallet out of her purse. 

"Nah, that's okay." 

Looking over the menu, a large placard behind the counter full of fancy engraved text and curly-cues, Marceline chose a strawberry filled pastry, an herbal tea and a fruit salad. She was aware of Bonnibel watching her with screwed up eyebrows, one high, one low, trapped between befuddlement and surprise. 

"When did you learn German?" Bonnibel asked after making her own selections. "I know it wasn't from me," she added sourly. 

Leaning her hip against a nearby empty table, Marceline focused on keeping up her guard. It would be so easy to be lulled into trusting, but she wasn't about to admit how and why she had learned the language. 

In the mental exhaustion that had followed being passed over for the job she had already been doing — that final failure — she had withdrawn socially. All her friends were gone and her new job was only tolerable because she could play music through the miserable hours. She had passed the time at home by watching television and reading. Recalling Bonnibel's efforts to teach her the language, she had rented books and CDs from the library and learned German just to see if she could. And because she thought it might, in some obscure way, bring her closer to Bonnibel. 

"We've come here several years in a row. I just picked up enough to get by in town and deal with staff," she said instead with forced nonchalance. 

"Uh huh." Bonnibel looked at her critically before an employee grabbed her attention, holding out two trays over the high display counter. 

Marceline led them to a window booth and swiped her food off the tray. Her stomach was twisting enough that she wasn't sure eating was a good idea but that might be her blood sugar talking. Out of sight, her foot began tapping rapidly against the linoleum. 

"So, how's life been?" 

"And here I thought you were a fan." 

"Well, yeah, I've read the magazine articles and internet feeds but there's gotta be more than that, right?" 

"Not really. I live in a house in the mountains with my dog and I make music. Pretty much it." She glanced up to find Bonnibel watching her skeptically again. "What?" 

"You didn't need to agree to this. I wouldn't have been offended." 

"I was curious and hungry. Besides, your life story didn't show up in a dozen magazines," she answered more curtly than she intended. 

She had kept the details of her life to herself as long as possible but her parentage invariabley hit the net and a couple of tabloids. After she finished screaming at the walls and kicking around equipment, Chance suggested she accept one of her many interview requests. Rather than suppress her life, he advised her to spill every detail to the hungry public, making her immune to retaliation by blackmail over some secret. Once she calmed down, she did exactly that and her confirmation of the initial rumors only added to her fame, providing a real edge to her public persona. 

That didn't mean she didn't have a five mile security cordon around her house to keep out photographers and journalists. She prosecuted them without mercy if they stepped onto her private property. Being subject to the court of public opinion reminded her of high school on a global scale. 

Bonnibel tipped an eyebrow in admission before sipping on her mocha. "Fair enough. I was hired on to the R and D department and wound up heading it in a few years. The CEO tapped me for VP and when he stepped down, the board confirmed me. I got my dual citizenship in the meantime and I live on-site, top of the tower." She smiled ruefully. "My research team tends to work odd hours and it keeps me available to them." 

Marceline laughed despite her nerves, coughing on some food that went down wrong as a result. 

"Don't." 

"All you're missing is the crown. I'll bet they have some tin foil back there," she joked, motioning with her chin toward the kitchen. 

"You're one to talk," Bonnibel snipped back, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. 

Lifting one shoulder in a shrug of admission, Marceline looked down at her food before her gaze fixed on those lips. "Chance said I needed a brand and it was the only thing I could think of. He was kinda leery at first, thought I was gonna do the goth thing but then I showed him what I meant and he told me to give it a shot." 

"Finn must think it's hilarious," Bonnibel said, waving a hand between them. 

Her eyes fell on that hand, slender fingers with short, manicured nails. She caught her breath before saying, "He does. Well, I dunno about you running a company — that's not hilarious — but the whole vampire thing being out of his playtime, definitely." 

"Strictly speaking, you run a multimillion dollar business too." 

Marceline tapped her spoon on the edge of her plate, momentarily keeping time with the absent rhythm her toe maintained. Some immature part of her always sniggered when an article referred to her as a businesswoman, associating the term with office cubicles and stodgy, conservative clothing. Not an elegant woman who possessed skilled hands and a commanding voice. 

Bonnibel wiped a hand over her face, sighing loudly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you out here. I wish I didn't have the attention span of a small child when it comes to relationships and I wish I didn't keep stepping in it." She wrapped her hands around her empty mug, looking down with restrained dejection. "I wish things had worked out different but I guess if you're done we should go instead of dragging this out any further." 

Marceline jerked her attention fully back to her, dropping the spoon. "I was just thinking," she said quietly. 

"Anything good?" Bonnibel asked, matching her tone. 

"Not sure; just thinking," she repeated, chewing on her lower lip. Unlike Bonnibel, she rarely made mental lists of logical reasons, carefully structured arguments with herself. She followed her gut instincts. While that usually got her in some pickle or another, ignoring them invariably resulted in worse predicaments. "But we should probably go. The next three days are gonna be packed for me." 

She picked up her tray, adding trash and scraps to it before dumping the lot in a nearby bin and setting the tray atop. She turned to find Bonnibel watching her with amusement, having left her tray on the table. 

Oh, right. She shrugged sheepishly. "American habits." 

"I know," Bonnibel said, laughter in every syllable as a busser came in behind them to clear the table. "It's okay. Took me a while to adapt too." 

With a deep breath, partially in self-disgust, Marceline pocketed her hands and shoved the door open with her foot, leading the way. She caught it with her elbow before it could start closing, giving Bonnibel a second to grab it. Recollecting where they parked, she studied the sidewalk with a yawn. She was getting a bit tired of looking at the ground but it was either that or ogling Bonnibel which would be plain dumb. 

"C'mon, sleepyhead. Let's get you to bed." 

Marceline grunted at the repeated innuendo though Bonnibel didn't seem to notice as she took the lead again, her usual oblivious self. Or maybe not, given that she had caught Marceline's earlier slip easily enough. Innocent and naïve weren't words Marceline would use to describe Bonnibel. Cunning, manipulative, perceptive and often ruthless, all her traits covered in powder pink and a guileless smile. 

She was dozing in the passenger side when the car stopped abruptly causing her head to bounce off the door jamb. She opened her eyes as Bonnibel cursed, a colorful string of English and German, and came to attention, sitting up straighter. 

"What? What's wrong?" 

"Get out of the car now! Go, go, go!" 

The authoritative tone had Marceline unbuckling her belt and throwing open the door to stumble out in the junction of the road and a narrow alley. There was little traffic and no pedestrians, but three cars had their vehicle blocked in. The nearest had clearly caused Bonnibel to swerve into the mouth of the alley, maybe their intention. 

Several men with guns were converging on them, ordering them quietly but firmly not to run, not to resist. 

"Bonnie?" she muttered through gritted teeth, while raising her arms. 

"Stay put," Bonnibel ordered in a whisper. "I thought they were paparazzi." 

"With funny looking cameras." 

"Now is not the time-" 

"Bonnibel Burgess. You will come with us," one man ordered, eying Marceline thoughtfully before tipping his head at an underling and motioning toward her with another gesture. "Get rid of her." 

Marceline stared, knowing from experience that there was no way to outrun a bullet. She could feel her body preparing to move, to execute any number of trained responses drummed into her reflexes, but it wouldn't do any good. There were too many men and too many guns, she wouldn't even go down fighting. She would go down like Ash, pop, pop and crumpling to the pavement. 

She heard someone say her name desperately and blinked at the muzzle swinging up toward her face. Well, shit. Chance would be all aflutter trying to keep up with refund demands. That was a lot of money, too. She hoped her band mates would come out okay from that mess. Finn was probably still peeved at her and she hadn't called Simon recently. She had been meaning to even though he would ramble on and forget who he was talking to partway through the conversation. She blinked slowly as the muzzle loomed in her field of vision. She wished that she had told Bonnibel that she still loved her. 

* * *

Marceline felt a tremor start between her shoulder blades, spreading to encompass her chest, back and legs. She wanted her death to be quick, not this slow consideration, toying with her nerves. Maybe he was a sadist, a television villain playing games with her mind, unlike the disinterested professionals her father had described. 

Bonnibel was saying something, the same phrase over and over in a rising, pleading tone as she tried to interpose her body between the gunman and Marceline. 

"That is Marceline Abadeer. The Marceline, from the Scream Queens, the Vampire Queen? Come on, you imbecile, listen to me!" 

"Marceline? What are you doing with her?" 

"You do not believe her, do you? Shoot her! We need to move!" 

"But I have tickets to the show." 

"What?" 

"Shoot the bum, now!" 

"You goddamn idiots! If you are trying to be subtle you are about to ruin it! No amount of money will stop the police from investigating her death. Is that the sort of publicity your boss wants?" 

Marceline blinked, the gun barrel receding from her vision as she listened to the growing argument around her. The men had closed ranks as they bickered in low tones that bordered on full volume. 

"Marcy! Show'em your scar!" 

"What?" She asked in blank incomprehension, slightly jerking her head around to look at Bonnibel while keeping the gun in sight. "Why?" 

"Yeah, that is right. The real one has that scar, got shot or something," the man chuckled a beat after he spoke. 

She scrabbled at the hem of her t-shirt, yanking one side up as high as it would go, modesty the least of her concerns right now. She mentally thanked her recent career in show business for teaching her to be more comfortable both with her body and being in front of an audience. 

The gunman tipped his head slightly to look, though his aim didn't waver. "Well? Is it her?" 

The man who claimed he had tickets to her show stooped over and craned his head to get a better look. He studied the entry wound and surgical scars thoughtfully. 

"It looks like the pictures," he said finally. "It is not makeup." 

"Fine," the leader declared and strode forward to grab Marceline by the shoulder, shoving her toward another man. "In your car." 

He wheeled around, waving at the men to get moving, but when he reached for Bonnibel, she flung up a hand. 

"I will get in myself." 

Marceline managed to catch her eyes once, before they were separated. The man assigned to her hauled her up and tossed her into the back of his sedan. She reflexively went into a modified roll over the back seat, landing on her butt in the footwell, one arm jammed up against the seat and the other flung out to slow her fall. 

The cramped position kept her from being lurched around as the car sped forward. Once they seemed to be traveling in a straight line, she cautiously clambered up onto the back seat and slouched. The windows were heavily tinted and the passing scenery was a series of bright and dark shadows. She poked at the door lock despondently but it stayed compressed, not that she really wanted to jump out of a moving vehicle. 

Looking around, she noticed the driver's eyes watching her narrowly. She sat back against her seat and flopped her hands in her lap. They were shaking like crazy now. There wasn't much she could do that wouldn't result in a potentially fatal crash and it was possible she was being taken to the same place Bonnibel was. She tried to engage in meditative breathing but was only able to relax in temporary lulls. 

They were probably going to kill her anyway, just not in a such public place that would leave an identifiable body. They would use a bloodless method, then melt her body down with lime or other chemicals, then dump the minimal remains over a wide area. Probably in the water somewhere, or maybe right in the sewer. 

Her head sank and she closed her eyes. She would rather have been shot without time to think about her impending death and whatever was going to happen to Bonnibel. She laced her fingers together. She wondered what a crime boss, even a low level one, would want with her. Either Bonnibel herself was involved in organized crime or…or…? 

Her eyes slit open as she considered the possibilities. If Bonnibel had been an obstacle to some operation, the men would have shot her from a distance. Which meant the woman had something they wanted that they couldn't simply steal, either something immaterial or very difficult to move. 

She opened her eyes fully as her foot began to tap on the floor. 

Despite that, she actually started awake when they reached their destination, appalled at having fallen asleep in such precarious circumstances. But she was tired and too much stress could make her sleepy. Alternately, it wound her up until she was acting like a drunk clown, but she wrote some of her best work that way, so hey. Consequently, she wasn't fully coordinated when the driver waved a gun, ordering her out. 

She stumbled, teetering around for a second before finding her balance. She couldn't help smiling in amusement as the man backed up a couple of steps, suspecting her of some ploy to attack him. But the other cars and men were in the same garage so making a break for it was out of the question. 

Marceline straightened, hearing Bonnibel's familiar, strident voice haranguing her kidnappers and demanding to see whomever was in charge. She smiled again, this one full enough to pull at her cheeks and earn a glower of disapproval from her captor. 

"Do not laugh. You will die soon." He waved at her to proceed toward a door. 

"Yeah, I know," she said quietly, all humor draining away as she walked ahead of him. 

They climbed up a utilitarian stairwell, steps painted a dirty olive-drab and the walls an equally grimy off-white. Successive layers of paint peeled in some spots. Dirt, cigarette butts and other detritus accumulated in the corners. The lighting was comprised of old-fashioned incandescent bulbs, some burnt out, others yellow with age. 

Several floors up, she and Bonnibel were led to a room and thrust inside, though she didn't miss the heated, whispered debate that went on between the men before the door closed, a dead bolt sliding shut with a _shunk_. 

She stood there in the empty room with Bonnibel, her mind cycling between all the futile things she shouldn't do and not a single thing she could. She stood there until she was nearly knocked off balance by Bonnibel's possessive hug, arms clenched around her shoulders and back, Bonnibel's chest rising and falling far too fast for the calm she had been portraying. She could hear the rasping breaths against the side of her head, a suppressed whimper finally drawing a response from her paralyzed body. 

Marceline raised her arms to return the embrace, not exactly certain where to rest her hands, what was and wasn't appropriate. It was probably why Keila had advised her to never date an ex, because the boundaries were so fuzzy. And because she herself had had a bad experience on that front, no doubt. Strands of hair that had escaped Bonnibel's professional bun tickled the back of her hand and it itched to catch a handful, sliding it between her fingers. No, that would definitely be crossing the line. 

"You probably shouldn't celebrate yet," she warned quietly. "They'll still axe me. They're just waiting for their boss to decide when and where and to arrange a clean-up crew." 

Bonnibel tsked in exasperation, taking in a deep breath to let it out in a sigh as she released Marceline and took a polite couple steps away. "Aren't you a ray of sunshine today." 

Marceline shrugged. "I'm tired, I've been kidnapped at gunpoint and the only reason I'm still alive is because you convinced them I'm too famous to dump in an alley. Also, I kinda know more about this stuff than you do." 

Bonnibel grunted in reluctant agreement, understanding Marceline's reference to her father and his line of work. "Maybe, but if you're willing to trust me, we'll both make it out of this alive." 

Despite her fatigue, Marceline noticed a slight but telling inflection on the word ‘both'. "You seem pretty sure that you're gonna live," she said with simmering suspicion, knowing that Bonnibel always played her cards close to her chest, often leaving out the very people who should be informed. 

"I…" Bonnibel stammered, cutting herself off with a careful study of the room, particularly the ceiling and far corners. With a meaningful glance, she continued, "I think I know who took us. It might be the Black Rabbits, but," she shook her head, "they wouldn't be this courteous or disorganized." 

Marceline took in the final sneer with a raised eyebrow. Bonnibel usually concealed her contempt of petty idiots, but maybe being surrounded by super smart people like herself all the time had eroded her manners. Or maybe there was a camera and she was trying to antagonize whomever might be listening, someone with a big ego that was easily pricked. 

"Black Rabbits?" she asked. 

Bonnibel waved a dismissive hand. "You don't need to worry about them. My problem." She pocketed her hands with a rueful grunt, pacing in a half circle that took her through the sunlight filtering through the dusty window. "This snatch was sloppy. Their pics are probably all over the net by now and I'm sure there were multiple witnesses with the way they jammed up traffic. They must have been desperate," she said, a wry smirk playing on her lips. "I tried to drive slow enough that my security team could scramble but I guess I lost them in the traffic." 

Marceline looked away, searching for a place to sit or lie down comfortably. "Yeah, I already figured you have something their boss wants. Tell me something I don't know, like what you do that requires a security escort for breakfast." 

Bonnibel didn't answer for a moment, then swallowed and licked her lips. "My company specializes in weaponized biochemical agents and counter-agents with a side dish of genetic engineering." 

Picking a corner of the room, while blinking rapidly in horror, Marceline slid down onto her butt. She stared at Bonnibel in the growing silence, her stomach doing a queasy flip as her brain processed the confession. Marceline raised her knees, propping her arms atop them, using her hands to shield her view of her. 

After a couple of tries, she quipped feebly, "I guess that explains how you bumped into Finn." 

Bonnibel licked her lips again, shifting her weight cautiously. "He was part of a group sent for training in use of a counter-agent and emergency clean-up procedures. I, uh, guess that's not what you were expecting I'd do with my life, huh?" 

Marceline pressed her lips together, shaking her head slowly without looking up at her. "Nope." 

"Well, I didn't expect you to go from blue collar to rockstar, so that makes two of us. The work I do…Someone's gonna go there and I wanted it to be a group of scientists with ethics. Since I hold the majority share, I can keep the bottom line from being the final call and I ensure that there's always a humane solution for whatever we invent." She was quiet for a few seconds. "Our products could devastate entire populations, entire regions, in the wrong hands, but we can always neutralize those sort of bastards. Do you understand?" 

"Yeah, I get it. Someone's gotta do the dirty work and come out smelling like a rose," Marceline answered, looking up in time to see Bonnibel flinch. 

Bonnibel's face was as rigid as a statue's but she picked at the cuticle of one finger. "You know, it's completely irrational, but I hoped you wouldn't find out or that if you did, you wouldn't care. I didn't think you'd give me enough of a chance to get that far, really. The odds were so steep…" She shrugged weakly. "I'm sorry I let you down." 

It was the apology that made the muscles in Marceline's arms jerk, her fingers twitch in surprise. If Bonnibel had one glaring flaw it was her infallible belief that she was always right. Marceline couldn't even term it arrogance because, as a general rule, Bonnibel was the smartest person in any given room. Whereas her brusque insensitivity towards tedious emotional needs only popped up when she was deepest in thought, her absolute confidence was always on display. 

She knit her fingers together, watching Bonnibel pace anxiously, because that's what she was seeing: nerves. She could feel that bubbling terror under her sternum too, but hers was rooted in the awareness of her imminent death. Bonnibel, on the other hand… 

"Why don't you sit down?" she suggested softly. "Watching you fall apart is giving me the heebie jeebies." 

Bonnibel stumbled, in the process of turning as her foot took an automatic pace forward. "I'm not…" she started to protest, glancing over at Marceline while catching her balance. Whatever she saw caused her lips to compress in reluctant admission. Bonnibel approached cautiously, pausing to wipe her palms on her slacks before dropped down to jam herself against the wall and Marceline's side. 

"Screw it," Bonnibel declared. "Even if I'm right about who grabbed us, there's a good chance you'll wind up dead. So you deserve to know that every time I see your face on some magazine or website, it hurts." She kept facing forward, speaking to the far wall rather than Marceline. "You gave up but it was my fault, my sucky time management skills. I was young and stupid. I didn't realize I couldn't take your patience for granted or assume you were as self-sufficient as you seemed. I know I…We both know I have a wandering eye, and I should have realized you would assume I had moved on to greener pastures, but I wanted you and I screwed it up so bad I can't fix it." 

Marceline picked at some loose threads where her jeans had split. She could buy a thousand pairs of new ones but that wouldn't change who she was or where she came from. She remembered many conversations with her therapist, seeking to understand why she craved forgiveness and acceptance so desperately that she repeatedly crawled back into the arms of an abusive partner. But abuse required things like malice, hostility and a need for control, not being a dumb ubernerd. 

"You know, my dad doesn't like you." 

Bonnibel squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her thumb against the bridge of her nose. "I just gutted myself and-" 

"He set up that police sting to make me run. He wanted me to join up with him but he was happy so long as I left without a trace. Well," she said with a forced, hollow laugh, "he said I could stay and get locked up but that would've been retarded. He said you were just slumming it and when something better came along, you ditched me, like you said. And, it was easier to believe that than keep waiting." She unraveled the thread further. "And he gave me twenty grand." 

Bonnibel had her hand curved against her brow, throwing her eyes in shadow but Marceline could see the bright glint of moisture in them. "I would have helped you. I would have given you all the money you needed, gotten whatever you wanted." 

"Yeah, I know. But Bonnie," Marceline pointed out, screwing up her face, "that sort of thing looks bad to most people. It felt bad too, like you were trying to pay for me." She pretended not to notice when Bonnibel discreetly pressed her wrist against her eyes. "I guess my dad did instead but I know he's scum." 

She heard Bonnibel swallow several times, clear her throat and let out a shaky breath. 

"Shit," Bonnibel muttered, looking up with her palm over her brow again. "If there's an audio feed, you're fucked." 

"Pretty sure my fate was already sealed," Marceline quipped, going along with the change in subject. Then she narrowed her eyes. "Wait. How would us being a past item do me in?" 

Bonnibel bit her bottom lip, gazing up at the ceiling before glancing over at Marceline, her expression somber. It looked like she was going to speak, then she looked away and visibly changed her approach. 

"Do you trust me enough to follow my instructions?" 

"I trust you to act the way you always have," Marceline answered neutrally. 

Bonnibel raised her chin in affront. "While its true that a person's core personality rarely changes over the course of their life, people do gain maturity and wisdom with age. So, can you trust me at least a little bit? Can you swallow some of your goddamn pride?" 

That very same pride raised Marceline's hackles at the challenge, at the perfectly correct accusation. "You usually know what you're doing, so shoot." 

Bonnibel winced at the poorly placed bit of macabre humor, giving a disgusted sigh before speaking. "As I mentioned, I think I know who grabbed us, and why. I want you to stay calm, no matter what happens. Can you do that?" 

"I sort of have issues with waiting," Marceline said dryly. 

"And staying calm," Bonnibel agreed in a matching tone. "Can you do it?" 

Marceline raised a shoulder in a halfhearted shrug of consent. "Sure. Like you said, peeps get a better grip with age." 

She also tried to hold still because Bonnibel had jammed herself shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip with her. Knowing her, that was a calculated position. There was probably some psych paper that talked about physical contact during moments of emotional intimacy and neurochemicals blah blah blah. Marceline closed her eyes in resignation, gritty with increasing fatigue. The floor was hard, the room was oppressively quiet aside from their respiration and there was nothing to look at, so she began waiting as requested. 

That was likely why she didn't jump away when she felt a tentative hand cup the side of her head and pull it down against a tense shoulder. She inhaled a faint perfume that permeated Bonnibel's suit jacket, something light and flowery with a hint of vanilla. It had been a long time since she had dozed against another person. 

"I'm glad you made it," Bonnibel said with unexpected introspection. "I was so worried when you disappeared but then your name started showing up in magazines, on billboards, then merchandise and it seemed impossible. I thought it had to be some other Marceline but it was you and I was furious. But now it just makes me happy." 

Bonnibel was stroking her fingers through Marceline's hair, light against her scalp, occasionally tickling her ear. Marceline adjusted her position so that she could lean more easily against her, though she kept her eyes closed. If she opened them, she would wake up and it would all be one more shitty dream. 

The next thing she knew, someone was shaking her awake, whispering urgently. 

Marceline mumbled, righting herself against the wall and rubbing at her eyes. Bonnibel was blurry and she blinked several times to clear her vision. 

"Remember what I said," Bonnibel repeated, as she backed away, guided by two men, each who had a hand wrapped around one of her arms. 

"I will," Marceline assured her in a dry croak. 

By the time she cleared her throat, the door was closing behind the escorts and she was left facing two more men in cheap suits. One was standing while the other crouched, studying her intently. A moment later, adrenaline cleared the fuzziness of exhaustion, though her thought processes still swirled aimlessly. She made to stand but the man on his feet motioned at her to stay put. 

"I would prefer to stand when I die," she said, astonished at the steadiness and volume of her own voice. 

"We are not here to execute you, Ms. Abadeer. We are guards. Our employer does not wish you to cause trouble," declared the standing man, his pistol holstered but in plain view beneath the flap of his open jacket. 

The crouching man grinned. "You are truly her?" 

"Yeah," she muttered. "Do I need to sing something to convince you? Because then I need a glass of water." 

"No water." 

The crouching man shrugged with a sympathetic smile at the other man's denial, then dug a hand under his lapel and came out with a pistol. 

Marceline stiffened before starting to lurch to her feet. 

"No, no, no," he said, waving a hand in reassurance. "I am not shooting you." 

Bemused, she watched as he popped the clip from his pistol and checked the chamber. Standing man rolled his eyes and withdrew his pistol to aim it at her. Her skin prickled in anticipation of the piercing noise and heavy impact, but crouching man offered her his pistol. 

"Sign it." 

"What?" She stared at the neutralized weapon, imagining all the ways she could pitch it at his head or use it as a bludgeon. But there were two of them and she would get shot. 

"Sign it," crouching man repeated, miming writing on the barrel. 

"Right. Okay. With what? It is black," she complained, waving a hand in disgust. 

"Yes, yes," he agreed, reaching into a pocket. 

Standing man sighed loudly, giving a slight shake of his head. She dubbed him Joe and the other Bob. 

Bob handed her a pocket knife. 

She took both weapons, holding one in each hand and considering whether she had the skill to strike both men simultaneously. She eyed their position peripherally. They were too far apart and they would both expect such a futile gesture. She was good with blades but if she threw the knife, she would be down to a club. If she threw the pistol, she would be rearming crouching man. 

Marceline began etching her name onto the barrel, complete with the ‘M' stylized to represent a pair of fangs and the labrys as an underline. It was slow going, though the knife was sharp. The pistol was a high end .38 and the blued steel was hard. The slim flat plane along the barrel, the largest clear area she could find, was narrow and she braced her elbow against her ribs to keep the tip of the blade steady. 

When she looked up, Joe still had his gun pointed at her and Bob had stood up to wander around the room. After another moment of serious consideration, Marceline put down both weapons, carefully sliding them out in front of her. Bonnibel had asked her to trust in some implicit plan and wait. Besides, her left hand had cramped from holding the knife tightly for so long. 

"Ah!" Bob walked back to scoop up his weapons, pocketing the knife with a flick of his wrist to close it, and admiring her signature. "You did good." 

"You did not give me a name," she said with an offhand shrug, "so I could not personalize it." 

He grinned at her, then waggled a finger in reprimand before inserting the clip into his pistol and chambered a round. "You will not get a name." 

"Worth a try," she said absently, taking a deep breath and dangling her arms over her raised knees, massaging her left with her right. She closed her eyes on the dim hope that her fanboy might go a little bit easy on her, whatever came next. 

She must have fallen asleep again because the next thing she knew, she was being prodded by the toe of a loafer and a man was ordering her to rise. Mumbling groggily, she batted at his leg and pushed herself up. It wasn't as if she meant to keep conking out when she was in mortal danger and Bonnibel was…She cut off that thought before it could sprout branching possibilities. 

"I'm up," she grumbled, then remembered to switch back to German. "Has your boss decided what to do with me?" 

"He has," Bob confirmed, then waved a hand. "Turn around." 

She balked reflexively. Like any trained fighter, she disliked exposing her back to an opponent, but she had little choice. Joe had noted her lack of immediate cooperation and began to reach for his gun. She turned around, facing the wall and listened intently to the motions of the two men. 

She could feel her wrists being zip-tied and she cringed, bracing her shoulders, preparing herself for the damaging bite of narrow plastic bands. She reminded herself that it didn't matter if her hands or wrists were injured but she could hear Chance chiding her for every time she risked her livelihood with some foolishness, as he termed it. 

But he was her fanboy, after all, so he only tightened the ties enough to keep her hands from sliding free. She gave a mental nod to appeasement. It worked some of the time, though it was rarely a lasting solution. She hoped Bonnibel had an actual plan and hadn't been blustering. 

She was guided around by a hand on her shoulder, then a light shove between her shoulder blades indicating she should walk ahead of him. She followed Joe out the door, down two hallways to another door. He knocked before a muffled response came from within and he opened the door. 

Because her view was obstructed by Joe, she couldn't see the guy in charge until she was completely in the well-lit office space. It was empty of the usual signs of business, but it had to be a back room of some type because there was a kitchen area and a television mounted on the counter top. It was on, showing some news broadcast. 

Then the man ahead of her stepped aside, presenting her to his superior and she cocked her head, nonplussed. Perhaps if her thought processes hadn't been muddled by fatigue, she would have said something more clever than, "Oh, it's you." 

"Ah," Ricardo Hartless said in response, "I see you're as charming and witty as ever. Have you been enjoying your stay?" 

"I liked it better when I was asleep." 

She took a better look around the room, doing her best not to fixate on Bonnibel where she sat in an office chair, arms folded in aggravation. Her hands weren't tied, of course. She was the guest of honor in this charade. Marceline pressed her lips together regarding Ricardo, better known by the play on his name, Ricardio, during high school. 

He came from a wealthy family, more a product of his father's investing firm than his grandfather, who had barely scraped by after emigrating from Mexico. Ricardo had been the star jock, on both the wrestling and football teams, but he had also done his father proud with his high grades and membership in the honor society. If Bonnibel had been straight, he might have caught her fancy but he mostly just irritated her with his stubbornly repetitive demands for her attention. 

He had to be the one Bonnibel had suspected was responsible for the kidnapping, must have known some tidbits of information, events leading up to this and, as usual, left Marceline out of the loop. And the fifth wheel on the love boat, which was five too many. She pursed her lips, wondering if that made her a life preserver. Probably not. 

Ricardo was at his suave best, tall enough to half stand and half sit on the counter. His gray suit was custom tailored to emphasize his broad shoulders and narrow waist, though his maroon shirt didn't do his tan skin any favors, picking up ruddy highlights on his face. He had always liked that color, which had become part and parcel of his nickname. His glossy black hair was fashionably coiffed with an artful spring of bangs over his forehead and she was positive he was wearing mascara. The dude was pulling all the stops to impress Bonnibel and it wasn't working worth a damn. 

She prayed that Bonnibel had the sense to play along. Unlike her, Marceline knew what men like him did to women who failed to coddle and praise their egos. 

"Perhaps you like what you see better than dear Bonnibel does?" he crooned in a dangerously smug tone while pushing off the counter. 

"Not really. Looks like you're the same bonehead you always were," she said, unable to stop the antagonizing words even though she saw the way Bonnibel's fury fell away to reveal abrupt concern tinged with fear. 

She tipped her head back as he approached to keep looking him in the eyes, planting her feet and refusing to back away. The thing was, she wasn't scared of him. He had been a vicious bully in high school, concealing his nasty nature with smooth words and a winning smile, not to mention his father's money. Both of them had breathed a sigh of relief when he graduated ahead of them, claiming he was going to med school to become a surgeon. Didn't look like he had succeeded. 

Instead of fear, a familiar detached sense of peace settled over her. She had learned that strategy unknowingly, unaware of concepts like dissociation, in her innocence, while dating Ash. She hadn't thought of him as being abusive, as beating her, as manipulating her emotional reactions, as raping her when she tried to decline sex. So there was nothing Ricardo could do that was more upsetting than those memories and as long as his attention was on her, it was off Bonnie. 

She feigned boredom, resting her weight on one leg and yawning against her shoulder. There was nothing to stop him from killing her, so she might as well go for broke. "What's wrong, Ric? Even the hookers turning you down these days?" 

His lips tightened, every plane of his face going taut as his eyes widened at her reckless impudence. He rolled his shoulders, working them loose, then smoothed his expression before glancing over at Bonnibel. 

Marceline braced herself once again for a blow that never came. 

Ricardo strolled away from her. "Pretty weak attempt to distract me, chica. I was actually trying to figure out what Bonnibel could ever see in an ignorant piece of white trash like you. I mean that figuratively, of course. I always assumed you were a charity project, some way to make herself seem less threatening and imposing to the less capable students." He looked slowly between the two of them, gauging how well his words had cut. "But by the sound of it, you two got pretty serious before she came to her senses and moved on." 

"Well, Marcy always did have more sense than people give her credit for," Bonnibel injected, deliberately misunderstanding his comment. 

Marceline snerked in appreciation. 

Ricardo rolled his eyes with a melodramatic sigh. "And now you two are going to team up to upset and enrage me into making a mistake. Nope," he declared, sauntering over to Bonnibel. "Here are the facts, ladies. This newscast playing behind me is footage of where the authorities think you two are being held hostage." He pointed cheerfully at the images of helicopters making passes over an abandoned apartment complex. "Obviously, we are not there but there are a couple of very convincing doubles and some other hired help putting on a show for them." 

Marceline walked around to get a better view of the television and would have come closer, but Ricardo barked an order at her. 

"Sit down, Abadeer!" 

Her legs stiffened in automatic rebellion. 

"Sit down in that chair against the wall and keep your eyes on your ex-girlfriend," he commanded more soothingly, his smug tone scraping at her remaining nerves. "Because every time you look away, I will take liberties with her." He smirked, "I plan to anyway, but I will advance much more quickly every time you lose your focus." 

"Bonnie will break you in half if you try anything." 

He tutted, shaking his head and gave Bonnibel a chiding look. "You haven't told her, have you?" 

Marceline looked inquisitively at Bonnibel. Years past, she might have leapt to the assumption that there was something between her and Ricardo, unlikely as that seemed. Instead, she wanted to hear the real reason for this kidnapping because it couldn't possibly be a thwarted suitor, not with all the legal consequences of that act. 

Bonnibel grimaced. "So, remember when I was telling you what my company makes?" 

"Uh-huh. Lemme guess, he's trying to get his paws on some formula." 

"You see, I…um, yes," Bonnibel stuttered to a stop, blinking at her. "Oh. I guess it would be obvious to you, huh?" 

Marceline shrugged. "Well, he's not gonna win you over by raping either of us and definitely not by killing me, so what's he got on you?" 

"He snuck in a thief and got ahold of some rock candy." 

"I'm gonna guess that's a street name for…?" 

"Actually, it's what the techs started calling it as a joke because it really does look like pink rock candy. I guess the name stuck." At an impatient glower from Ricardo, she cleared her throat and took a more serious tone. "Anyway, it's an airborne fungal toxin, but only if the binding agent is vaporized with rapid, high heat." 

Marceline thought over that quickly. "You mean if it's dropped in a bomb?" 

"That's the intended delivery method, but on a small scale, a localized explosion will do the trick. It can be small enough to disguise as an electrical fault or mechanical failure, so it has a wide range of applications." 

Understanding sinking into her bones like lead, Marceline exhaled, dropping her bravado. "And he got some. Who's he gonna poison? A school? A government center?" 

"A hospital," Ricardo supplied with obvious gusto. "I was originally going to take out the arena during your show but when she ditched her security team to go out with you…" He shrugged. "I don't like to miss golden opportunities." He ran a hand through his hair and smoothed down his lapels. "So you will sit down and Bonnibel will not lift a finger to stop me, will you dear?" He scrunched up his nose and added, as if it were a daring aside, "I know she will never be a willing partner any other way." 

Marceline ground her teeth at his cloying term of endearment before doing as bade. She sat down with ill grace, remembering after a split second to raise her gaze. Ricardo had already pushed Bonnibel's blazer down to her elbows, effectively trapping her arms by her sides. He flashed a grin, meeting Marceline's eyes before tutting again. 

She swallowed. The adrenaline spike had worn off and her body was too drained to provide another. Her exhaustion increased with every passing minute, lids like sandpaper over eyes that felt as bruised as they must look. Ricardo was skimming his fingers over Bonnibel's face as if she were a lover, or a treasure, and that was enough to make her feel ill. No matter what, he would do more and more and Marceline would begin tuning it out just as if it were happening to her. Once that happened, she would start nodding off and Ricardo would likely declare himself the victor of this vicious little game. 

With a curse, she jerked her eyes back up. He stopped unbuttoning Bonnibel's shirt with a cheeky smile. Knowing a coping mechanism was subconscious did nothing to stop it, another lesson from her therapist to combat her unhealthy guilt. The lesson was utterly useless now. She narrowed her focus to Bonnibel's face, blurring out everything else. 

Bonnibel wore absolutely no expression, her gaze as remote as it became when she was in her head, working on some task. Marceline's chest squeezed with aching pity because she knew that wouldn't work, wouldn't stop the rage or pain. It would just come later. Disassociation and compartmentalization only went so far before the mind was forced to choose between anguish or insanity. 

Ricardo's face swam into focus as he bent to kiss Bonnibel's neck. Marceline saw her lips compress and her shoulders jerk as she struggled to remain still despite her practiced detachment. 

All her life, Marceline had held back and it had gotten her nowhere. It had been reckless savagery and making the immoral choice that had resulted in success. In this case, while the hospital and its patients clearly mattered to Bonnibel, Marceline didn't know a single person there. If she were honest with herself, she didn't care about any of those conceptual people beyond a vague sort of should-care that didn't quite take hold. They weren't friends and they definitely weren't family. 

With the dexterity granted by countless hours playing instruments, she grabbed the tag end of her zip tie and pulled it tight around her wrists. Then she began twisting them against each other, hands in fists to strengthen and protect her tendons as Finn had instructed her to do in just this sort of situation. She had laughed at his paranoia then, insisting she would never be famous or popular enough to kidnap. Now she remembered his explanation about how plastic could be stressed just like a paperclip. 

Every time Ricardo touched Bonnibel, she used the resulting rage and fear to twist her wrists. Eventually, the newscast repeated, Ricardo had Bonnibel's shirt down around her elbows and Marceline could feel the wet slime of blood on her hands. There was no point in stopping then, the damage was done. She wondered if Finn realized how many times zip ties needed to be twisted before they gave way, when she felt her wrists part, stiffening her arms before Ricardo could notice she had succeeded. 

She stretched and rolled her shoulders as if merely attempting to alleviate the very real ache caused by her arms being trapped in the same position for hours. 

Ricardo grinned at Bonnibel, tipping her head up by her chin. "Looks like she finally gave up." He pressed his lips to hers and didn't seem to mind the lack of response. "Only a matter of time before she falls asleep now. Her exhaustion is inevitable." 

Bonnibel finally spoke. "The problem with IQ tests is that they can only measure a narrow segment of abilities. It's widely accepted that many types of genius are missed entirely and therefore never recorded by common standardized tests." 

Then she ducked hard to the side as a steel and plastic chair hit Ricardo in the head. Though he fell to the ground in an awkward, astonished sprawl, he was getting back up when Bonnibel hammer kicked him on the neck, then kneed him in the face. She threw another knee into his kidney when he staggered to the side, bent over and finished him with a hard jab to his temple. 

Ricardo toppled over in a limp, unconscious lump, curled in a fetal position at Bonnibel's feet. She sneered and kicked him in the gut, his body jerking from the force of it. She stepped back, shifting her weight for a second, more vicious kick. 

"It won't help, Bon. Just stop. We need to get outta here," Marceline said as soothingly as she could manage, jogging over to Bonnibel to lay a hand on her shoulder. 

Bonnibel whirled on her, face twisted in rage as she bit out, "Took you long enough!" 

Marceline flinched, felt matching anger bubble up before it was smothered by defeated acceptance, and lost all sympathy. She never had and never would measure up to Bonnibel's expectations any more than the woman could to her own. She dropped her hand, wiping away some blood on her jeans, careful not to look at it. There was a bright red stain on Bonnibel's shoulder though, which she ignored fiercely. 

"Not all of us are escape artists," she said quietly. "Just get your clothes back on and let's go." 

She crouched down, rolling Ricardo over and began searching his pockets, the task made more difficult because she was forced to keep her hands out of sight to avoid seeing the slime of blood. So she went as fast as possible, gulping back the lurch of queasiness that hit every few seconds and hoping her position hid the moisture in her eyes. She understood the need for distance, the need to be doing something. 

She heard Bonnibel walk around her, picking up the clothes she had discarded to free her arms, heard the rustle of fabric and harsh tempo of her respiration. Marceline found a knife, a 9mm pistol, an extra clip, breath mints, lip gloss, a wallet and a cell phone. They had hit the jackpot. 

She held up the phone. "Anyone you can call to get help?" 

Bonnibel took the phone gingerly, swiping the screen. "It's locked. With enough time I could hack into it but time's what we don't have. Besides, I don't dare key anything; it's probably linked to the detonator," she said before sliding the phone into a pocket for sake keeping. 

"Fine. Take the gun. I'll stick with the knife," Marceline said decisively while flipping through the wallet and pulling out all the cash she found. 

She had, over time and at the insistence of her sensei, put aside her aversion to firearms. She had learned to handle them, to shoot with halfway decent accuracy, but she still disliked guns. Perhaps she disliked people who used them for selfish ends more than the weapons themselves, but intellectualizing did nothing about her visceral revulsion. 

"You keeping all that?" 

"Yup." 

"You know, they took all my stuff, too," Bonnibel protested while checking how many rounds were in the clip of the pistol and pocketing the extra. 

"Yup," Marceline agreed, without handing over a single dollar. She paused to wipe her fingers clean before testing the balance of the knife. 

"Wow. You really don't trust me. I thought-" Bonnibel snatched at the nearest of Marceline's hands, pulling her arm out to examine her wrist. "Aw, geez," she muttered, fingering the pale underside slashed with swollen cuts, wiping away drying blood with her thumb. "We should get these clean and wrapped." 

"We don't have time," Marceline said in exasperation, pulling her hand free. 

"Yeah, we do. His people are expecting him to have some fun, probably for a while, and they're gonna give him the privacy to do that. What you can't afford is an infection. You've got some pretty nasty lacerations, bruising and swelling, but all that is easy to treat. My doctor can get you in shape for your show, but an infection will fuck you up, maybe permanently." Bonnibel motioned toward the sink with her chin. "Wash up." 

Marceline was walking toward the sink before she comprehended that she was reacting automatically to Bonnibel's authoritative tone. She shook her head in disgust but kept going because her logic was sound. She searched through the cabinets first, in case there were supplies, and found more than she was expecting. 

She found a stack of towels, which were innocent enough, until coupled with the assortment of cutting implements, coiled tourniquets, packs of gauze and pressure bandages, syringes, large trash bags and several jugs of bleach. She stepped away from the counter, allowing the last cabinet door to close with a _thunk_. Then she backed straight into Bonnibel and gasped, jumping away in a stumble. 

Bonnibel was staring at the cabinets too before she swallowed hard, licked her lips and took a deep breath. "So. I'm really glad you got free and we were able to take him down. And I'm sorry I yelled at you. I was just scared and, oh God, I couldn't stand it," she blurted out, voice breaking as she stared into space in horrified wonder. "I thought I was prepared for anything he would do, and he didn't even really do anything to me but…" She shook her head in pained confusion. 

Marceline gave into gut instinct and wrapped her arms around Bonnibel, who went stiff as a board. She couldn't hear any shouts of alarm outside but that would change as soon as they started moving. There would be yelling and shooting and they might both wind up dead. Knowing it was completely selfish and totally stupid, she pulled Bonnibel closer into a full contact embrace, stroking her back in overlapping circles until she felt her body relax somewhat. 

"Hey, you're a tough bitch. You'll work through it." 

"I'm not a bitch," Bonnibel mumbled against her neck, snuffling in between words. 

"You are too. You're a total jackass, a smug, sanctimonious, royal bitch." 

"You're a douche bag, you know that?" Bonnibel declared without any real malice, wiping her eyes as she pulled back to glare at Marceline. 

Marceline shrugged, daring to smile a bit as Bonnibel recovered her equilibrium. 

"You're the sweetest, kindest douche bag I know," Bonnibel reiterated, smiling back. 

Then Marceline was being kissed, a hot, wet sloppy thing that pushed her back against the counter, arms raised in surprise. She should do something, she thought to herself, tilting her head to better accommodate the kiss. She should protest or argue or do anything except allow Bonnibel to slide a leg between hers, as she heard her own whimper. 

Abruptly, Bonnibel shoved herself backward, hanging her head and gasping. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that," she moaned out, pressing her forearm to her mouth, body shaking. "I just have wanted to ever since I saw you and then-" She spun around, reaching Ricardo in a few swift strides to kick him in the head. "Piece of shit," she snarled. 

Marceline watched her, licking her lips, elbows on the counter. Pushing herself upright, she wondered if anyone had ever suggested anger management therapy to Bonnibel and decided now was not the best time. Nor was she inclined to scold her for kicking Ricardo. She wasn't sure what Germany's laws were regarding self defense or justifiable homicide but she did know that money usually paved a smooth path to freedom. 

She turned around and, remaining careful not to actually look at her hands or wrists, turned on the faucet and began rinsing off the blood. She grabbed the conveniently provided liquid soap, gritted her teeth and washed while Bonnibel paced behind her. Of course, the wounds oozed freshly as soon as she cut off the tap and she flipped open the cabinet door to grab at some gauze, ignoring the trickle of blood starting its way down her arm. 

Bonnibel came up behind her, grabbing the scissors and taking the gauze from her. "Let me." 

Marceline kept her head up, gaze averted as Bonnibel worked quickly, dabbing at the fresh blood, then wrapping her wrists expertly. Their eyes met every now and then, Bonnibel's somber and thoughtful rather than impatient. She watched her root out some fabric tape, heard it ripping and felt it tighten around her wrists to secure the gauze. 

"Okay, you're good." 

"Thanks," she mumbled, flexing her hands to test for swelling. Her fingers felt a bit funny but no worse than after a long session jamming. For a moment, just for a second, she saw naked concern on Bonnibel's face before it was obscured by a professional focus. 

"All right, Clyde, let's roll," Bonnibel drawled, flipping the safety on her pistol. "I should be able to remember the layout, so follow me." 

* * *

Despite their circumstances, Marceline smiled as she held the knife parallel to her arm, held back defensively. It wasn't her favorite sort of blade, but she had learned to fight with them, in theory. "So I guess Ricky over there never went to grad school, huh?" 

"What?" Bonnibel glanced over from the door, which she had cracked open to check for guards. "No, he went to med school like he said. He just never finished. Got kicked out after he got charged with raping a fourteen-year-old illegal he had shipped to his basement." 

"Oh." Smile completely gone, Marceline studied Ricardo balefully, wondering if it was ethical to kick him, maybe just stab him a few times. It wouldn't kill him, after all. 

"All right," Bonnibel said, interrupting her line of thought, "looks like he didn't want eavesdroppers, so we've got a clear path to the end of the hall. But they'll check on him eventually." 

"Yeah yeah," she injected. "I know. We gotta hustle." 

She trotted after Bonnibel, who had discarded her jacket and rolled up her sleeves, a rock star following a jet setter through an abandoned corporate complex. She wondered what the tabloids would make of that and if Bonnibel would flip her shit when she became the center of their speculative attention, assuming they survived. 

Bonnibel turned every corner cautiously, pistol raised and ready to fire along her line of sight but no one impeded their way to the stairwell. But they hadn't made it down two flights of stairs when they heard the first gunshots, muffled pops that seemed to come from below, then a man's shout and more distant pops. 

"Shit, shit, shit," Marceline cursed, quickening her pace down the steps. "What do we do?" 

"Into the hall. We don't want to be hit from both sides," Bonnibel answered tersely, checking the landing door. She slapped it in frustration, then swore in consternation at the noise she had made. 

Marceline tipped her head in recrimination, rolled her eyes and took off downstairs at a jog. "It's called anger management, Bonnie." 

"Shut up." 

"When did you get so angry, anyway? You used to be the calm and relaxed one, always chill no matter what happened. I was the drama queen, remember?" 

Well, except for the time Marceline had been laid up in the hospital and it looked like Bonnibel was going to be framed for possession of a lethal weapon on school property. Even then she had gotten her shit together real quick, taking charge of the situation. 

"Corporate life is stressful," Bonnibel said, tone even more clipped. "We can discuss your opinion of my emotional state another time." 

Reaching the next landing, Bonnibel tested the door and it opened, swinging inward. Head down, she listened before nodding once and pushing it open enough to slip through. Marceline followed and they found themselves in another bare hallway, musty smells of humid disuse overlain by tobacco smoke. 

"This is like a game," she hissed to Bonnibel, overtaken by a whimsical urged likely brought on by fatigue. "I gotta level up and find a gun and some ammo." 

Bonnibel turned on her, incredulous, aghast fury flashing across her features. She jerked a finger over her lips, then motioned sharply with her head while turning away, commanding Marceline to follow. 

Marceline wondered if she might find a health pack instead to restore her energy. Actually, what she really needed was a bathroom. Unlike Bonnibel, she hadn't been subjected to the perverse royal treatment. Heck, Bonnie probably got to use a bathroom, fix her makeup, eat a sandwich and watch some television before it was switched to that depressing newscast. 

They found the smoker strolling down the hallway with his back turned toward them, but it was obvious that he was about to turn around and loop back as he approached the far corner. 

Bonnibel pointed at Marceline, around the corner, raised a hand with her fingers outspread, laying one down at a time. Then she pointed at her knife and drew a slash across her throat. 

Marceline stared at her, then shook her head in automatic horror. 

Without giving her time for further argument and taking advantage of her surprise, Bonnibel gracefully swiped the knife from her grasp with a simple wrist twist. She walked it between her fingers before taking a downward stabbing grip and pressing herself against the wall. She didn't seem the least bit nervous, her expression almost bored as she calculated the timing as the smell of cigarette smoke grew more intense. 

As the man's shadow fell into view, scattered in three directions by the omnidirectional lighting of the hallway, Bonnibel slid around and threw the heel of her palm into his chin. He stumbled with a gasp and click of teeth and she spun him around like a dancer, arm moving in two harsh jerks before she stepped back to give his body room to fall. 

Marceline dry heaved and bent over, hands on her knees, watching the cigarette roll across the carpet. Her stomach was still jerking and she was swallowing back bile, refusing to puke, when Bonnibel handed a .38 caliber pistol to her. With a trembling hand, Marceline took it gratefully, deeply questioning her original choice of weapon. Sharp edges always resulted in blood and she enjoyed fencing for the sport and exercise, not its practical applications. 

Hearing a crunch, she looked up. 

Bonnibel was regarding her impatiently, the remains of a cell phone by her feet and stepping delicately to the side to avoid the widening maroon stain in the carpet. Marceline _hurked_ again, swiftly turning her back on the whole mess. Taking a controlled breath, she followed the perfectly collected Bonnibel down the hall. She was beginning to suspect that her ex wasn't just a research scientist. 

The next corner revealed three men in hushed argument, weapons already drawn. They couldn't seem to agree on which direction to go. Marceline fingered her gun anxiously, aware of the steadily increased stiffness in everything from her elbows down, as Bonnibel crouched back beside her. The pain she had been expecting was finally seeping through her shock and exhaustion, increasing sharply when she squeezed the grip of her pistol. Bonnie glanced up at her and they had another silent debate that ended with Marceline's absolute refusal to tackle three opponents and more bloody carnage. 

Bonnibel threw up her arms and pointed back in the direction from which they had come and Marceline breathed a sigh of relief. Sprinting after her as lightly as possible, she gladly followed Bonnibel back into the stairwell. There weren't any gunshots from lower floors this time, but that was either a lull in the battle or all of the men on that floor had been cleared by the invading party, as far as Marceline could figure. 

Bonnibel paced in quiet agitation. "You should have let me clear the floor. Now they'll find that body and pincher us in here. We need to get to the bottom landing and hope those are friendlies down there." 

"Shouldn't there be like, a fire escape or something?" 

"Where do you think I was taking us?" Bonnibel snapped, cheeks flushing as her fists clenched. She jabbed a finger toward the door. "It's on the other side of the building!" 

"Sounds like you know what you're doing," Marceline said with an edge of suspicion. "Why would those be good guys down there? We both saw the news." 

Bonnibel took a deep breath, closing her eyes and exhaling slowly. She brushed some hair off her face. "I have a GPS transponder hidden on my body. My security team should have isolated my position by now. The only question is how long it takes reinforcements to arrive." 

For a moment, Marceline slowly flapped a hand in front of her face, words trapped in her throat. "Oh! So you planned for all this," she got out in gross sarcasm. "I see. This happens a lot to you? Getting kidnapped by shitheads, almost raped, murder and whatever else? Whoops, sorry you got dragged into it, Marcy. My bad." 

"You know, not everything is a joke, Marceline," Bonnibel growled, pushing past her to jog down the steps. 

"Doesn't mean you can't laugh at it," she shot back. Marceline hopped onto the banister and slid down past Bonnibel to back in front of her on the landing. "I think you're keeping even more secrets than your complete lack of privacy." 

Bonnibel frowned at her, lips compressing stubbornly, but before she could answer or deny the accusation, the landing door burst open and two men immediately spotted them. 

Marceline didn't need the hand on her back to know she needed to get around the corner. The echo of gunfire and chips of flying concrete told her that much. Her heart leapt into her throat with each one but she could hear Bonnibel softly counting each shot as they waited. 

The first man peeked around the corner and his check was soon followed by a covering shot as the second man advanced. 

Marceline began to shake outright, hands sweaty. Real fighting was way scarier than the simulations on the mat but at least she was wide awake now. But she really had to pee. 

Bonnibel pivoted around almost lazily, raising her gun with practiced ease and firing twice. 

There was a clatter, followed shortly by a groan as Bonnibel spun back around to rest her back on the wall. 

Looking at Marceline, Bonnibel motioned that she should shoot at the surviving man. This time, rather than anger, her face revealed serious pleading. She needed the covering fire. 

Swallowing, Marceline nodded. While she disapproved of Bonnibel's apparent criminal associations and more violent behaviors, she fully agreed with surviving. Checking that the safety was off and a round was chambered, fumbling a bit in raw fear, she watched Bonnibel crouch at the edge of the corner. Taking another breath, Marceline spun around and began firing in the general direction of their opponent, breathing between each kick to avoid dumping the clip in a panic. At least the ringing in her ears muffled the painful sounds. 

Bonnibel jogged up the steps in a crouch, rolled across the landing and fired two more times while regaining her feet. She stood as the man's body rolled down the steps he had climbed, then bent to take his gun and toss it down to Marceline. It fell and slid across the lower landing right past her and Bonnibel gave her a withering look. 

Then the landing door opened silently and Marceline couldn't get the words out, frozen in a stutter of accumulated terror. She thought she might have pointed because Bonnibel was pivoting to face her new opponent and the two were moving in a flurry of knees and elbows, neither making significant contact. 

But for all her apparent skill, Bonnibel was lighter, smaller and had a shorter reach than the new man. Contrary to common assumptions about big men, he was fast and nimble as a dancer. Aside from his coloring, he might have been Finn. Marceline didn't see what he did, if it was his fist or elbow, but Bonnibel whirled from a blow and hit the concrete steps hard. 

Marceline took the steps two at a time, forgetting, as she reached the upper landing, that her pistol was out and the new one was down below on the floor. Trying to use hers as a club earned her a jab to her solar plexus and the edge of a palm to her throat. She stumbled back, gagging as her body simultaneously tried to breathe and hurl. Fortunately, it was something she had experienced on the mat and she kept moving, knowing her body had enough oxygen for a couple of minutes. 

Scrambling up, she staggered backward into the wall. No, something on the wall, a hard, angular cabinet that dug painfully into her ribs and spine. Turning to look, she saw something unbelievable. It was one of those emergency fire kits, a long mildewed gray water hose with a short-handled fire axe beside it. 

Throwing an elbow, she aimed to smash the glass but it rebounded instead. She clutched at her arm, squeaking from the lancing shock that went straight up her elbow to her shoulder and neck. Right. Glass probably hadn't been used on those things for ages. She pulled the handle, which was marked by an enormous arrow, opened the small plexiglass door and grabbed the rusty red fire axe. 

By the time she turned around, Bonnibel was desperately kicking at the man as he held out his gun, trying to aim. He circled and skipped around her foot as she twisted on the ground more like a break dancer than a combatant. Launching herself up by one hand on a lower step, she drove a straight kick toward the man's knee, but he turned so that it landed on his thigh. Nevertheless, the impact drove him back a half foot or so, sticky soles of his boots causing him to skitter and catch his balance. 

Marceline saw him bring his gun hand back around, taking advantage of the increased distance and safety from Bonnibel's kicks. She took a breath and let fear and indecision fall away as she swung her axe just like the maul she used back home to split wood for her stove and fireplace. The hand-held axe was much lighter, the blade thinner, and it sank easily into the man's skull with a wet crunch that reminded her of a cracked egg. 

A gunshot rang out, bullet going far and wide, as his entire body gave a spasm before he fell in a slow crumple. She couldn't avoid seeing the wide, blossoming red stain soaking his hair, his neck and running down onto and into his shirt. Letting go of the handle, she backed into the emergency fire cabinet once more before pushing off it to fall weakly to her knees. She averted her gaze but it was far too late. A series of involuntary heaves racked her body, but all that came out was a discolored line of spittle. She moaned over the cramping of her stomach. 

Her father once told her that as a young child, she had run into a tree in the park so hard that her nose almost broke. It had taken over an hour for it to stop bleeding, a cold compress against the back of her neck and another over her eyes as her face swelled and bruised. She had coughed and choked on the blood, crying in terror, making those moments of suffocation worse as both her parents pleaded with her to stay calm, swallow the sticky, salty clumps and breathe. 

She swallowed and breathed, holding her breath before counting as she exhaled and heard three more tell-tale crunches of crushed cell phones. They didn't have time for freakouts. She felt a gentle hand on her shoulder, Bonnibel crouching down to smooth back hair from her temple, then run her fingers soothingly along her scalp. 

"You got it together?" she asked quietly. 

Marceline nodded and pulled herself up using the banister, legs trembling like jelly. She heard a thick, sticky plop on the stairs beside her and turned her head further toward the wall. Bonnibel moved away and she heard a sucking noise, a muffled scrape, followed by something being drawn against cloth. When Bonnibel handed her an extra pistol and the fire axe, she took both gratefully. She wasn't sure she could use the latter, but hand weapons didn't run out of ammunition. 

"Sorry," Bonnibel apologized. "It's just that the gun's only got three rounds in it. I'll try to get you another one." 

"It's okay," Marceline mumbled. "You're a better shot." 

She followed Bonnibel down the stairs only to be distracted by a shallow groan from the man laying there. Eyes widening, she glanced down to her right. 

He lay still with a hand pressed against dark spots on his chest that gave off a sheen in the aged lighting. His eyes were wide and pleading with all the fear and loss of a child, tears creeping down his temples. When he tried to speak to her, incomprehensible sound came out along with pink foam. 

"Fuck, Bonnie, he's not dead." 

"I know, but what do you want me to do? He's no longer a threat. If I shoot him again, it's murder. And a waste of ammo," she said, adding the second reason absently, already looking around the next corner and watching the door as well. "We gotta go." 

Hesitating, with a last, lingering look at the critically wounded man, Marceline trotted down the steps after Bonnibel. "Bonnie?" 

"Hm?" 

"What's your real job?" 

"For God's, sake, I told you!" Bonnibel hissed, never breaking her pace downward. "It's just a dangerous field full of corporate espionage, extortion, bribes and blackmail. I've been kidnapped twice before, dealt with numerous death threats and out-maneuvered several hostile takeovers designed to get ahold of my research. So I took measures to defend myself. Welcome to my life." 

Marceline had no response for that outburst. She had imagined Bonnibel sitting at a counter, staring into microscopes or typing at a computer all day. Killing people remained incongruous with that image but she could see how biological weapons would be a hot commodity that would draw criminal activity. 

"You should get therapy," she concluded. 

"I don't need therapy," Bonnibel said in exasperation. "I'm fine." 

"You're not fine. I've known you since we were little and you can't make bad stuff go away because you decide it should." She thumped her own chest for emphasis. "I know it won't work. You should talk to someone." 

Bonnibel slowed, reaching the landing. She glanced at the door, then looked at Marceline, chewing on her upper lip. Rather than argue, she appeared pained, eyes bright again as she gave a crooked smile, huffing a quiet laugh. "Didn't I give you that advice once?" 

"More than once but I was too dumb to listen." And too poor to afford a doctor, but Bonnibel was too polite to include that reason. 

Bonnibel licked her lips, gaze going distant before she smiled tenderly. "Tell you what, if I haven't sorted myself out in two months, I'll get help, okay?" 

Marceline stuck out her hand, pinky crooked. "Promise." 

Bonnibel stared at her hand long enough that Marceline thought she would refuse the childish gesture, but then she swung up her hand and hooked her pinky around Marceline's. "Cross my heart." 

"But let's not die." 

"Honestly?" Bonnibel said, smile vanishing. "Whether it's on my own two feet or in a bag, I'm getting out of this building. I'm not letting that bastard cut me into pieces just to amuse himself." 

Marceline sucked in her breath, partly from shock and partly from that reminder of the Bonnibel Burgess she knew, the woman who charged forward into every endeavor like a Sherman tank. If they went back upstairs, Bonnibel would be taken captive and Marceline would be executed. If they went downstairs, they might run into more goons or allies. That math was pretty easy. 

"Finn's gonna be so jealous when he hears about this," she said with a grin, heading downstairs. 

"Eh," Bonnibel answered dismissively, "small potatoes for him." 

The small thread of hope wavered as the gunfire resumed, louder now as they approached it. They paused at the landing door marked by a giant number one. The landing terminated in the corner behind them and they both hovered in front of the stairs, eyeing each other. They could hear muffled voices calling questions and answers to each other. 

"Where are you going?" Bonnibel asked in bemusement. 

"I'm not…" Marceline looked down in consternation to discover that she had backed two steps upward. "Sorry. I'm not good at this sort of thing. You gonna open that door, or what?" 

Bonnibel kept her gaze fixed on the floor, eyes vacant. "I'm trying to hear someone familiar, my head of Sec Ops or maybe Finn but…" She shook her head slowly, eyes narrowing. "I don't recognize any of the voices." 

"That's bad. That's bad, right?" Marceline asked, throat closing up in panic as her voice rose an octave. 

For a second, she wondered why Finn would be with Bonnibel's security team, but he was in the country and it was both of them. Of course he would finagle a way to get involved, assuming he didn't have permission to join the team to begin with. 

Bonnibel continued in the same perplexed tone. "Ric runs a pretty big smuggling network but I haven't heard of any rival operation trying to make a move on his guys. It would be one hell of a coincidence and, quite frankly, I don't believe in those." 

"Random chance doesn't happen in science?" Marceline challenged, trying to go for facetious but it came out in a strangled high tone. 

"Sure, but not coincidence," Bonnibel frowned tightly, raising her gun as the voices neared. "Get ready." 

"Shouldn't we go back upstairs?" 

"Bottleneck's a better place to make a stand," Bonnibel said implacably, tilting her head at an odd angle as she aimed. 

"Why are you all bent crooked?" Marceline asked in concern, hunkering down to present a smaller target and aiming her own pistol. 

"I lost a contact." 

"Oh. Well, I need to pee," Marceline said in solidarity. 

Bonnibel suppressed a laugh, the sound coming out as a wet choked noise. "Dork." 

The latch clicked and the door opened slowly, stopping a crack open. A blurred shape behind it did a check and double-check before a black-clad arm pushed the door open further by just as methodically, rather than being kicked or shoved open to facilitate a quick rush and attack. 

Marceline's finger trembled over the trigger guard, fighting the urge to slip in and open up blind on whomever was opening that door. But no, she would follow Bonnibel's lead in this. She was mature enough not to rebel against her advice these days. Unless her advice was stupid. 

"Marceline Abadeer? Are you present?" 

She saw Bonnibel start in surprise, her arm wavering a fraction off target before steadying. Marceline tried to get her attention for some direction on whether or not to respond to the disembodied voice. 

"Marceline Abadeer? If no response, we shoot." 

"I, yeah, oh, right. Yes. You speak with Marceline Abadeer. State your identity." 

"I am Reinhard Gottschalk, regional lieutenant of your father, Hunson. I have been sent to bring you to safety. May we advance?" 

"What?" Marceline jeered in disbelief. "I don't know who the fuck you are, asshole, but my father doesn't go around helping me! Step one foot in here and we're gonna obliterate your ass!" 

"Ach. I understand. You are afraid. I will not approach. We have secured the ground floor. All of your enemies have been terminated or fled the building. It is unlikely they will bring reinforcements but the authorities may have been alerted. Please be aware, that if they come, I will not fail in my orders, Miss." 

"You can take my dad's orders and shove-" 

"Marceline, calm down!" Bonnibel barked, her face red from the strength of her outburst. She took a breath and visibly settled her temper as a dog might shake off water. "It sounds like there are enough of them out there to take out Ric's entire group. They could just rush in and overpower us and they know it. So, if they're being this courteous, they're probably allies." 

"You are Doctor Burgess?" the man asked with evident curiosity. 

"Yes." 

"Hm." 

"What, hm?" Marceline asked warily. 

"Boss Abadeer does not like her. He wishes her dead for bringing you to this harm." He hesitated, adding reluctantly. "My orders are to execute her if she survived." 

"The fuck you will," Marceline challenged, continuing in English because he clearly didn't need her to speak in German. 

"Ach," he said again, apparently in some internal debate. 

"I will grant," Bonnibel injected, "that Marceline would not be in danger if it weren't for me, but I have protected her this entire time. I have put her safety ahead of my own. Also, I watched her cleave a man's skull because he threatened me, so I do not believe she would permit you to harm me." 

"Ach," Reinhard conceded. "Boss Abadeer ordered me to follow her orders as if they were his own. Miss Abadeer? I am your man. No harm will come to Doctor Burgess, if that is your wish." 

Marceline bit back the slur she wanted to issue, looking down at Bonnibel with concern. She flipped through the phrasing of her order, so many words and possibilities, but finally settled on the simple. "No harm may come to Bonnibel Burgess," she ordered, holding her breath as she waited. 

"We will obey," Reinhard answered solemnly. 

A man eased through the doorway, arms held up though a gun was pointed up at the ceiling. He wore a black turtleneck, skinny jeans and sported a riotous head of locks and enormous grin that flashed in bright contrast to his skin. 

Marceline blinked rapidly, taken aback though she knew she shouldn't have been. She saw Bonnibel edge to the side before lowering her pistol slowly and realized she had already dropped her own guard. She kicked herself for falling prey to a sexy smile and swagger, her very own techniques. 

Reinhard lowered his arms, then pointedly tucked his pistol into a holster. He and Bonnibel traded a challenging stare, two intelligent, potential enemies sizing each other up before he looked back up at Marceline and bowed his head slightly. 

"May we escort you and your companion to safety?" 

Marceline glanced at Bonnibel and shrugged, standing up and dropping her arm. A gun was heavy, after all. "I guess, yeah." 

Reinhard had his pistol drawn like greased lightening, pointing it at Marceline. "Drop your weapon or I will kill you now!" 

Mutely, she dropped her gun with that cold, draining sensation of being wrong to hope, yet again. Then, behind her, she heard another clatter of metal on concrete and she frowned in confusion. As Reinhard side-walked past Bonnibel, she realized he wasn't aiming at her, but at someone behind her. She turned to look and saw Ricardo Hartless. 

His face was a swollen red mess, blood smeared down his neck and presumably his shirt. He had discarded his jacket and he was bent over, favoring his side, elbow tight against his battered rib cage. He spat at her in impotent rage. 

"Shoove haff kill't schtoopiff fitch." 

She squinted at him, making out the insult. "Hey Ricky. How's it going?" 

He spat at her again and a tooth came out, _plinking_ down the steps. 

She screwed up her face as it landed near her foot. "You did a good job, Bonnie." 

"Why, thank you," she replied pleasantly. "It's too bad he survived. Speaking of which, why haven't you shot him?" 

"That is Boss Hartless. There may be wider consequences over his execution and Boss Abadeer did not give explicit orders regarding his fate." 

"You mean he's got a trade agreement with him," Bonnibel interpreted dryly with evident disgust. She blew a raspberry. "Figures." 

Marceline could feel her face pulling into a twitching rictus of denied fury, one more injustice being piled onto the ledger of her life. If she hadn't broken those zip ties, she would have been forced to watch as he tortured and raped Bonnibel, desperate to kill him, knowing he got off on their combined impotence. And he was going to get away with this fiasco because her scumbag of a dad had a deal with him. She felt the handle of the axe biting into her palm. 

"Marceline," Bonnibel said softly, concern mixed with warning, but that only made Marceline look at her, and reinforced the fear and anxiety. 

"Miss Abadeer? Has this man personally offended you?" 

"That sorry excuse for a man doesn't deserve to live," she snarled without thinking. 

The gunshot zinging by her head caused her to lurch hard against the banister, hipbone bashing into the hard steel. She grunted, going down on one knee, hand bracing as Ricardo's body toppled down past her. She heard Bonnibel suck in her breath through gritted teeth. 

"Marcy, weren't you listening when he said he had to follow your orders?" 

She winced, keeping her back turned despite a morbid desire to see Ricardo dead. "Not really?" she answered in chagrin. 

"You did not wish him dead?" Reinhard asked with uncertainty. 

"No. I mean, I did," Marceline admitted, sidling over to the other banister and then side-stepping down the stairs where Bonnibel took her by the shoulders and guided her around the corpse. "I just didn't think you would actually do that. Oh my god. Did I just order someone dead like some sort of mafia boss?" 

" _Yes_ ," Bonnibel said emphatically, rolling her eyes. "Duh." 

"But I'm not in the mafia!" Marceline protested as she and Bonnibel were herded out of the stairwell and into a body-strewn meth lab that occupied the ground floor. 

"Uh, you sort of are," Bonnibel insisted, waving her arm in a wide sweep that encompassed the assembled men and women waiting on Reinhard and the disaster area around them. 

"Oh, fuck," Marceline said with a gulp, trying to find a place that wasn't splattered with blood and noting that she was freaking out less, which would please her therapist at the very least. 

"Keep your eyes up and on the back of his head," Bonnibel suggested, putting a finger under her chin and pushing upward. 

Marceline swallowed and wondered if Bonnibel had any idea of the burning the patches her fingers had left. "How about if I keep them on his butt?" 

Bonnibel's lips flattened and then her expression went all smooth and noncommittal. "Whatever works for you." 

"He has a cute butt," Marceline continued, holding out her hands to cup the air. "All tight and square. You can even see the dents through those tight-ass jeans. _Nice_." 

Bonnibel finally looked as directed, sighing. "If you say so." 

Marceline elbowed her in the side, then lifted her gaze and yawned. "Hey, I know we're in a rush, but can we swing by the bathroom. I really gotta go." 

"As you wish, Miss," Reinhard replied without missing a beat or batting an eyelash. "This way." 

It wasn't until the head of her axe bumped the porcelain sink that Marceline realized she was still carrying it, thrust in a belt loop. She splashed some ice cold water on her face, doing her best to ignore the red dots and smears on her t-shirt. There were no paper towels, so she settled for wiping her hands on her jeans and calling it a day. They were in a hurry and, contrary to what all her teachers had claimed in high school, she was damn good at staying focused when she had a reason to be. 

She pulled out the fire axe, cupping the side of the head in one hand, rubbing a thumb over the knobbly, red paint. For a second, reality intruded on her assumed role and she swayed until her thighs pressed against the sink. She should be crying, or hysterical or something. Right? That was how movies and television shows portrayed women in unexpected, violent scenarios. Unless that woman was Lucy Liu or something. Instead, none of it felt real except when for those brief moments when she had been consumed by murderous rage. All the murder and mayhem would probably sink in by tomorrow and she could talk it out over time. 

It was a bit odd to walk out of the restroom to find a horde of men and women waiting on her with masked impatience, but she shrugged it off with some swagger and a cocky smirk. None of these new guys looked like the textbook mafia goons Ricardo had employed. They wore casual street clothes, some sporting tattoos, ornamental hardware and hairstyles that made Bonnibel fit right in. She picked up her pace, beside a woman with decorated arms and a mohawk. 

Marceline grinned. It was a bit like being rescued by a mob of her fans. 

"What?" Bonnibel asked suspiciously. 

"Hey, any of you guys want tickets? Front and center in the pit!" 

She expected derision at Bonnibel's end as an interested murmur went through the group, but she only inclined her head, twitching an eyebrow and keeping silent. 

"We can discuss who will receive admission to Miss Abadeer's concert at a later time," Reinhard announced as hands were raised. 

As they entered what would have been the lobby, one of the point women was shot down, falling slowly as the rapport of the high caliber weapon faded. En masse, the group dropped to the ground or scattered behind nearby walls and leftover furniture fixtures. 

"Bonnie, Marcy? You in there? We got you covered!" 

It was Marceline's turn to hiss in consternation before yelling, "Hey Finn! We're fine! Quit shooting!" 

"We're not being held hostage, Finn!" Bonnibel shouted immediately after her. "These are friendlies. I repeat, friendlies! Hold your fire! Chief Obst, do you copy?" 

"I copy! Confirm friendlies?" 

Marceline licked her lips, regarding Bonnibel, the ancient carpet pressed against her cheek. Of course her security team needed proof that they weren't being forced to present the strangers with them as friends rather than captors. Her heart was racing again. 

"Reinhard, let Bonnie go out to them." 

He crabbed backwards on his elbows and knees until he was beside her. "That is not wise. With her, they have no reason not to kill my people. Then they will say we all died resisting them." 

"Not if I get in the way they won't. Besides, Finn's out there. He'll believe her." 

"Finn knows you well?" 

She bit her lips, rolling them completely inward as she felt herself blush. "We were his babysitters." 

Reinhard gave a short breathless laugh. "Ah. You were his nannies." He laughed again, but nodded, chin on his hand, eyes sparkling in the low light. "I would heed my nanny even as old man." He looked over at Bonnibel and nodded once in confirmation. 

"I'm going to get up!" Bonnibel called out. 

"Copy that!"

She scrambled up and walked briskly out into the lobby where two dark shapes rose up to greet her. After conferring them for a couple of minutes, more shapes stood or revealed themselves. Weapons were lowered, shouldered, soft clicks and slides of metal as safeties were engaged. One of the larger men stepped towards Marceline's group, pulling down his face mask and removing his helmet. 

"Hey, Marcy!" Finn shouted. "Bonnie says your security team won't gun us down if we don't shoot first. Is that true?" 

Marceline mouthed the words 'security team' in amusement before regarding Reinhard stonily. Regardless of Bonnie's blatant lie, these two groups of very different soldiers were naturally on opposite sides. Without her as insurance, Reinhard's men were in mortal danger and he had to know it. Then again, she wanted nothing to do with her father's criminal organization. Letting Finn's team shoot them down would be the easy way out and send a harsh message to her father. It would also be the coward's way. 

She sighed. "Reinhard, is there another way out of this building?" 

"Fire exits. It was how we came in with Hartless's men guarding the garage and main doors." 

"Okay. Take the guys in back out with you while I keep Finn distracted. If his team is good on their word, I'll send back the ones left in front. Oh, and give me a call about those tickets. I was serious about that." 

He nodded slowly. "It has been an honor to serve, Miss Abadeer. Please know that I am available for assistance at any time during your stay in my country." 

"Hopefully never, but thanks," she said with as much gratitude as she could muster. 

Giving him a moment to relay her orders to the group, most of whom began escaping as ordered, Marceline stood. Belatedly, she realized those back entrances might be guarded but then gave a mental shrug. Bonnibel's team had shot one of theirs, so it would be a fair trade. Then she scolded herself for the callous logic, glad that no one was privy to her thoughts. 

When she reached Finn, he grabbed her up in a rib crushing bear hug until she gasped out a protest. 

"Your real security team has been going crazy trying to find you," he said, "so who were those other guys that one of Bonnie's team just let out the back?" 

Marceline pulled a derpy face and shrugged. "Some guys my dad sent. Didn't seem fair to let you arrest them." 

He crossed his arms, frowning at her judgmentally before deflating. Running a hand through his hair, sweaty from being confined in a helmet, he grumbled something and turned away. 

"Oh, don't sulk," Bonnibel scolded. "It's my fault she got caught up in this sting and you know it." 

Eyes widening, Marceline spun on her. "Sting? You mean that rock candy stuff was fake?" 

"No, it was very real and very lethal. It was just bugged because someone kept making an attempt on it so, rather than wait for them to succeed, we let them have it. But I couldn't know if Obst and his team had located and neutralized it without word's from Finn's team." 

"That's why you took his phone, kept smashing all the ones you found," Marceline said in wonder. 

"Bingo. It didn't matter if I knew so long as he couldn't get a signal through," Bonnibel confirmed, smiling with nervous humor. "Incidentally, the hospital is safe and the sample is back in our possession." She clapped her hands, pasting on a super fake grin. "So, we all made it out alive. I'm calling this one a win." 

Marceline pointed at Finn and Bonnibel, hand bobbing in the air as she slowly plowed through the facts. "So, wait. Do you help him catch international terrorists on a regular basis?" 

They exchanged a telling look before Bonnibel turned to Marceline with a pained smile, holding up one shoulder defensively. "I kinda can't tell you? Sorry?" 

"Oh my god! You work for the government?" She clutched at her head. "Seriously? It's like you have to one-up me at everything!" 

"Working for the American government is hardly special, Marcy. Millions of people do that." 

"Whatever. I wanna go home and I'm not riding in the same car as you." 

* * *

Marceline tried to fume during the ride to her trailer but her eyes were gritty from exhaustion even though she had worked many longer days, either in the studio at home or practicing on stage. Her accusation of Bonnibel had been unfair but the discovery that she had been caught up in an orchestrated event had been too much to bear on top of everything else. With her head lolling against the cold glass of the SUV window, she also tried to ignore the armor clad law enforcement officer sitting quietly and politely beside her in the back seat. 

Had Finn even come for her concert or had he been catching a convenient flight to Germany to work with Bonnibel? But as she tried to work her dismay into a lather, the rational side of her brain piped up to remind her that Bonnibel screwed up her end by taking her on a date. That couldn't have been part of the plan and she must have known better. 

She rubbed at the corner of one eye with the pad of her thumb, feeling the warning twinges in her wrist from the simple motion as bruised tissues stiffened and swelled. She didn't want to consider that Bonnibel had wanted her company enough to throw what must have been an expensive and labor intensive operation to capture Ricardo Hartless and identify his connection with other criminal organizations. Nor did she want to dwell on the savage joy that she experienced when Reinhard shot him on her implicit command. Yet the satisfaction from both lingered in her bones, making her teeth positively ache, a secret thrill over having that sort of power even temporarily. 

She imagined her father felt the same way, top dog of his dung heap, meting out life and death sentences carried out with unquestioning obedience. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to quell that primitive, dangerous lust. It wasn't the sort she ever wanted to pursue. Her father…She crossed her wrists in her lap, trying to find a position that eased any tension or twist of the joints. How powerful had he become that he could reach her in Germany on such short notice? Or did he have people follow her on a regular basis? People that would obey her commands, if she wished to give any? 

Marceline examined the soldier beside her, her insignias and badges in English, one of Finn's ATF squadron rather than Bonnibel's brown and gold clad personal security. The woman sat still as a timber rattler on a sunny rock, ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation. Her eyes were hooded below her raised visor and she gave no indication that she was aware of Marceline's study until a faint smile played around the corners of her lips. 

Lowering her gaze, Marceline closed her eyes again, using each breath to push away unwanted ambitions. It had to be nice, being able to summon an iron fist when convenient. Had to be really nice. 

When the officer shook her awake, Marceline stumbled out of the SUV automatically and was standing there, rubbing her eyes when she realized she was nowhere near her trailer. 

She looked up at the ornate, yet understated facade of a high end hotel. Then she looked to her right and, seeing no one familiar there, to her left to spot Bonnibel. She squinted back up at the afternoon sun and glowered. She was too fucking tired to deal with this. She had enough money taken from Ricardo to catch a cab back to her temporary home on the road, but without a phone, she would need to find a booth or go into the hotel and borrow one. Then again, it was a hotel. If she stood at the edge of the sidewalk long enough, an inquisitive cabbie would undoubtedly pull up. 

"Sorry," Bonnibel apologized dejectedly. "This must have been Finn's idea. I didn't know or I would have stopped him." When Marceline said nothing, she continued, "C'mon up. My suite's huge and the bed has a roll-out. Or the couch — it's cushy. Or, um, I can arrange you a ride back to your place? Whichever." 

"I don't have my stuff," Marceline slurred, then coughed to clear her throat. 

"You can borrow some of mine and my butler can fetch anything you need. Upstairs," Bonnibel repeated, taking her by the elbow, "before you fall asleep in the gutter. Nothing hinky, I promise." 

Marceline kept her gaze on the floor the entire way, contemplating life with a butler and if it was anything like life with an assistant roadie. Probably not, but once in the suite, she looked around at the opulent grandeur, down at her filthy clothes, at the drying brown stains on her filthy clothes and bandages, and searched for the bathroom. It wasn't really a concrete thought, but an ingrained preference for cleanliness that had her shambling toward the shower and its fancy glass half wall where a curtain should have been. 

"Marcy, you can't–" 

She slammed the bathroom door, locked it and began peeling her clothes off. The _thunk_ made her shoulders jerk and she glanced down, having completely forgotten that stupid axe slung through a belt loop. It was buried under the pant leg now and she suspected it had chipped the tile floor. Would the authorities think she was concealing evidence? After a few more seconds, she decided that Finn would take care of it and maybe she would have a gruesome souvenir to take on tour. 

Bathing with her wrists bandaged was no problem but they began to throb a few minutes in as the hot water induced further inflammation. Pretty soon, the throb was a mind-numbing agony that left her unable to wash her hair. She settled for letting it rinse in the steaming hot water as long as she could endure the pain. After which she was left with the dilemma of how to squeeze the excess water out of it but gave up after a single attempt. She leaned against the warm tiles as it dripped, cocooned in steam until she developed goose bumps. 

Wrapping herself in the robe hanging on the door, she flipped the sodden mass of hair outside it and studied the lone toothbrush. After deciding not to try holding it, she grabbed the mouth wash and wished it didn't leave her mouth feeling so grubby. She stood in front of the counter, thinking there was something she ought to do next. Then she jerked upright, having begun to sway to the side with her eyes closed. Nearly eight hours of choreography practice, sound adjustments, emergency prop repairs, a mix-up with catering, then being kidnapped, threatened, nearly killed several times and all beside her ex. It was either that or delayed jet-lag. 

"Bed," she muttered to herself and walked out of the bathroom to discover a stranger chatting with Bonnibel in the living room. 

"Uh?" 

A tall Indian woman set down her tea cup and unfolded herself from the sofa where she had been chatting quietly with Bonnibel. A maroon sindoor parted her hair, ending on a bindi that all meshed with the glasses perched on her nose. Her hair was in a sleek bun and she wore something that looked like a sari with a pair of dress slacks, the whole ensemble making Marceline feel pretty shabby in comparison. 

"This is Doctor Kaur Pedreshi," Bonnibel introduced from behind her own tea cup. "She's my personal doctor — comes on call when I'm too busy to manage a proper appointment." 

"Which is too often." Doctor Pedreshi inclined her head in greeting. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Abadeer. I understand you have been through quite an ordeal and must be in tip top shape within forty-eight hours," she said in the clipped, melodic accent of a first generation immigrant. 

"Um," Marceline answered. She could hide back in the bathroom or everyone could just deal with her being a soggy mess. 

Doctor Pedreshi smiled broadly in tacit understanding. "You are tired but your health is important to your friend. Why don't you let me check your injuries, treat what I may?" 

"I guess," Marceline agreed dubiously, eyes sliding past Pedreshi to the tray of food that included the pot of tea. "But I'm hungry." 

"Then you may eat while I work, if you hold still," she warned firmly. 

"'kay," Marceline mumbled, heading toward the couch to collapse graceless on the edge of a cushion. She aimed for half a sandwich cut in a triangle, then recoiled with a hiss of pain, holding her arm against her chest. "Fuck," she whined. 

"Here, let me see," Doctor Pedreshi chided, reaching for her arm. "You are a musician, yes? The nerves of your hands are trained to be sensitive and perhaps there is underlying repetitive strain — a common issue." 

"I wanna sandwich, not a carpal tunnel lecture," Marceline grumbled, but narrowed her eyes in warning when Bonnibel started to pick one up. She would not be fed by her ex. 

Doctor Pedreshi's followed her warning gaze, noted how Bonnibel raised her fingers in mute apology and leaned back on the couch. She hummed low in her throat as if in thought, tugging on Marceline's right hand until the arm was straightened in front of her, unwrapping the soggy bandage efficiently. She turned the wrist over and about, pressing gently along nerves and connective ligaments, tutting whenever Marceline flinched or hissed. 

"Mm hm," she declared, nodding as fresh blood oozed from a particularly deep laceration. "Well, let's get these patched up. It's not so bad. For a regular patient, I would say keep them wrapped, clean and braced for a week or two but you are most irregular." She glanced up. "Have you ever been given cortisone shots for joint inflammation in the past?" 

"A couple of times," Marceline admitted, gritting her teeth as the doctor continued manipulating her wrist and began working on the other. She eyed the food on the platter wistfully until a passing bit of logic interrupted her visceral needs. "Wait up. Aren't you supposed to get my history an' stuff? You can't just be like, hey, whattup, have a needle." 

"Mmgh. Your records were supplied by a Chance Gander. Your manager?" She nodded once toward Bonnibel. "Your…friend made a few calls, as I understand." 

Marceline scowled at Bonnibel's presumption but couldn't summon more than a vague irritation over the invasion of privacy. 

"But I will need to get your vitals." Doctor Pedreshi released Marceline's left wrist and craned around to fetch up her satchel. Opening it wide, she pulled out a slew of supplies and utensils, including a set of syringes and small vials. "Please move the food." 

Bonnibel dutifully pulled the tray aside, setting it on a small end table and Doctor Pedreshi spritzed the coffee table with antiseptic, wiping it down. Sliding a paper face mask over her mouth and nose, her eyes crinkled with a smile. 

Marceline hunched her head into her shoulders, grimacing, but held out an arm once more as the doctor reached for some iodine solution and surgical strips. Half an hour later she was declared fatigued, dehydrated and in dire need of some basic nutrients, _duh_. Both her wrists and hands were wrapped to death and immobilized in tacky beige splints and she had been given a stern lecture not to grab, lift, carry, hold blah blah blah… 

Bonnibel smacked her on the back of her head at that point, prompting a yelp of sulky protest. 

Doctor Pedreshi crossed her arms, satchel over her shoulder. "Ms. Burgess, you will see that she complies with my recommendations, yes?" 

"I will fucking bite you if you try to feed me," Marceline promised Bonnibel emphatically, though her tone wavered from a combination of medications, words listing high, ending on a weak mumble. 

"Oh yeah? What about when you gotta go?" Bonnibel taunted with a smirk, motioning toward the bathroom with her chin. 

Marceline stared at her in mute horror, feeling a hot flush creeping up her neck to her cheeks. She ignored Doctor Pedreshi as mightily as possible though she couldn't avoid hearing her suppressed snort of amusement. 

"No. I don't care. No," she stated flatly as the doctor let herself out with a polite wish for them to have a good night. 

"If you're going to cancel the concert, now's the time to call Chance," Bonnibel said breezily, picking up the tray of food and replacing it on the coffee table. 

Grinding her teeth, Marceline looked away in concession. She had held shows while high as a kite on medication for the flu, another time with a twisted ankle and in states of complete exhaustion. Keila told her that she had gone out in half a costume and wound up mostly naked once. There were plenty of pictures on the net to prove it. Funny how the knowledge that she had done that in front of thousands didn't elicit a flicker of unease but the thought of a lone woman seeing her had Marceline in sudden knots. 

She had done a few glamour shoots to mollify the repeated requests of several magazines, as well. Nothing too risqué, but the resulting photographs had stunned her, left her squirming in awkward embarrassment as her band mates whistled and joked, passing them around. She could well imagine what some of her fans did with those magazines and to put Bonnibel in that category was both appalling and…arousing. Well, psychologically, anyway. 

Elbows braced on her knees, she regarded her fingers peeking out from the sleeves of the braces. Buffered by stout painkillers, she could only feel a throbbing ache in time with her heartbeat. The cortisone would cause a temporary flare up before it decreased the inflammation, unless she aggravated the condition. Bonnibel's threats paled in comparison to Marceline's annoyingly professional desire to succeed. She did not want to cancel a major concert, certainly not the remaining international set. Definitely not because she had screwed up her hands saving a lying, manipulative ex. 

She closed her eyes briefly, imagining those crowds of thousands screaming her name, becoming incoherent in their joy and appreciation, city after city, regardless of culture. Millions bought her music and merchandise, idolized her every quote and action. Sure, some of them were jerkass losers who slagged off in their commentary on vids and blogs, but even they drove up her viewership, so hey. Maybe it was the medication, but she swam in gloating pleasure thinking about it all. Now there was real power. 

Using the flats of her braces, she manhandled a sandwich — most of it anyway — into her mouth, cramming the whole thing in, hunched over the table like a dog. Bits of it wound up scattered on the tray and she expected Bonnibel to scold her, to make some sound of disgust, but she only pushed over another sandwich, helpfully tilted on its cut end. When she choked on too large a hunk, Bonnibel fetched her a paper cup and filled it with the lukewarm tea, heavily sugared. 

Marceline weighed the new challenge, narrowed her eyes at Bonnibel, and wedged the cup between the back of her fingers one one hand and the inner curve of her brace on the other. She crushed it a bit and spilled a bit at first, but drained the cup. 

"Ha!" she declared, dropping the cup on its mangled side. 

Bonnibel sighed pointedly. "You want the roll-out or the couch?" 

"Couch," she answered immediately, knowing the roll-out was attached to the master bed, which would mean listening to Bonnibel sleep. Too close, but not close enough. 

"Figured. There are extra linens and a blanket in my closet," Bonnibel informed her, standing and walked into the bedroom. "My butler's fetching you clothes and toiletries. He'll get in touch with Chance and Finn says his team found and collected our stuff, so at least we won't be hung up trying to get new ID's and credit cards." She came out obscured by a stack of bedding. "Oh, and my people retrieved my car, so I can give you a ride back, if you want." 

"No one stole it?" Marceline asked in surprise, ignoring the last offer. 

"Nah. Automated security lock-down and GPS beacon." Setting down her load, Bonnibel's smile faded as she met her eyes. "Finn won't be by until morning. He's tied up with paperwork. Otherwise, I'd take you back tonight." 

Marceline stood, smirking faintly, a bit sadly at Bonnibel's officious, distant manner. "Nah. 's'okay. I'm tired an' the room's kinda going sideways." 

"Actually, you're falling." 

Hip landing on the arm of a nearby sofa chair, Marceline tried to catch herself, remembered at the last minute that she couldn't use her hand and collapsed gracelessly on her side, in the chair. She frowned at Bonnibel, armpit jammed against the armrest. 

"Dude, you didn't even try'n' catch me." 

"I saw where you were going to land. Besides, I couldn't have reached you in time," Bonnibel defended dryly. 

"Maybe I'll just sleep here, like this," Marceline grumbled, thinking that Bonnie had moved plenty fast during combat, all sexy and coordinated. 

Bonnibel pursed her lips, then snapped open a flat sheet and tucked it over the couch. She tossed a pillow at one end and spread a comforter over the whole thing. "You can wear one of my shirts. Here. Don't make me carry– Actually, hold on a minute." She hustled past Marceline into the bathroom and returned with a towel and hair dryer. "Are you gonna put up a fuss if I dry your hair? The last thing your body needs is more stress and it'll feel better," she coaxed. 

Righting herself, Marceline clambered out of the sofa chair, looked at the hair dryer, noted Bonnibel's reserved expression and sat on the coffee table. "Sure. It's cold and sticking everywhere." 

She heard Bonnibel come up behind her, felt her start toweling her hair. Then she draped an armful of it over her arm, holding it out, hair dryer drowning out words and reality. And for a second, they were teenagers again. 

Bonnibel was teaching her about hair styles and make-up despite Marceline's sneering disinterest but secret fascination. They were laughing about something, maybe gossiping about their peers in high school and the future was a distant burden. They were in love, naively believing that it would conquer all. 

As the noisy minutes passed, Marceline finally gave into the urge to lick her lips nervously. Her head was swimming from the cocktail of medications and she struggled to remember what her father once told her. 

Bonnibel paused, turning off the dryer. "You want it completely dry or–" 

"No. Shouldn't do that. Causes split ends 'n'stuff." 

Bonnibel chuckled. "I know. It's weird thinking of you as some fashionista." 

"Got a make-up team an' a stylist an'…I'm sorry I yelled at you. I know you're not trying to be better'n'me." Marceline rubbed at her temple. "You're just like that." 

"I'm not…I was never trying to compete with you. I was trying to share time with you, do stuff you enjoyed to understand you better." Bonnibel caught Marceline's hand, pulling it away from her head. "You have a headache?" 

"No. This is hard," Marceline answered vaguely, considering how proud she wanted to be. She raised one shoulder in a limp shrug. "I learned German for the same reason," she admitted but then continued swiftly, "I only got mad 'cause I was scared and you coulda told me what was goin' on." 

Bonnibel stopped pulling her fingers through Marceline's hair to detangle it, fingertips landing on the side of her neck, pinpoints of electric heat. 

"Well, no I couldn't. I signed a gag order about the whole thing. I'm sorry," she added quietly, continuing after a pause. "Info was that he was going to come after me no matter what. He'd been trying for a while and ATF knew he was connected to Hunson. They needed a liaison to go after him out of country and they've dealt with me on a professional level before. So as a US citizen with close ties to the black market, I was an easy fit. The paperwork's a bit iffy but these days, terrorism blurs all sorts of lines." 

Marceline kept her silence and heard Bonnibel inhale, drawn and shaky. 

"I'm sorry I involved you. I should have stayed away, just gone to the concert like I was supposed to, but we'd been giving him opportunities to grab me all month and he hadn't taken them. So the analysts predicted he would go for a large scale hit and, well…I thought it was safe." 

Marceline was back to pondering her father's past advice, turning fuzzily remembered words over in her mind. Feeling her thought processes slow as her body tried to obediently shut down, Marceline craned her head around to peer up at Bonnibel. "Some date," she slurred sarcastically. 

Consternation blooming into panic on her face, Bonnibel retorted, "It wasn't–" 

"A li'l' bit weird but," she accentuated with a raised finger to silence Bonnibel's protest, "def'n' exciting. Ohmigod I'm gon' pass out." 

Bonnibel caught her by the shoulder. "C'mon. On the couch," she ordered gently, guiding her around and off the table before blowing out a breath between her lips. "You've been trying to drop dead all day. And off with that wet robe. Arms up." 

Barely able to keep her eyes open, Marceline complied in vague confusion. There was more she wanted to say — she was certain of it — but she was lying down and Bonnibel was pulling a blanket over her. 

When she woke, the room was lit a dull blue from an assortment of charging gadgets. Through the blinds were all drawn, she could hear the hypnotic drum of rain. She groaned, tried to rub her eyes and jabbed herself in the face with a scratchy brace. At least most of the pain had faded, but someone had jammed cotton balls in her mouth and she was simultaneously dying of thirst and had to go like crazy. 

She staggered off the couch and an hour later, she was bored. She couldn't write to jot down lyrics or arrangements. She couldn't type, even if she had been willing to hijack Bonnibel's laptop. She couldn't turn on the radio for fear of waking her, or sing for the same reason. She worried about her band. She worried about being ready for the upcoming performance. She worried about reporters descending on her like a pack of wolves when she officially resurfaced. Mostly, her mind circled like a buzzard around her father's pithy advice about waiting too long and missed opportunities. 

Her jittering knee froze when she heard the bedroom door unlatch. 

"Can't sleep either, huh?" Bonnibel asked from the doorway, wrapped in a fluffy white robe. 

Marceline blinked, the words interrupting her reverie, and looked away from the city horizon, lights obscured by heavy sheets of rain. She had been lulled into a trance by that sound, a soothing white noise that occupied her busy mind. 

"Meds wore off. Woke up." 

"Yeah. I heard you rampaging in the bathroom over an hour ago." Bonnibel fidgeted with the tag end of her belt before creeping further into the living area. "Are you in pain?" 

"Just stiff and achy. You?" 

"Bruises in all sorts of places," she answered with a dismissive shrug and rueful smile that threw a shadow on her face from the combined, diffuse lighting. 

Marceline grunted, unable to shake the tension in her neck and shoulders. She should be ironing out final performance choreography with her band-mates, conferring with her crew that all involved parties knew where to be when during the show, not trapped in a hotel. 

"Hey," Bonnibel said softly, finally making her way onto the abandoned couch. "It'll be all right. My people are good. If they can't get our stuff back, they'll replace enough of it that we'll both be able to get back to work in no time. You'll make your show. I promise." 

Lips compressing as she heard those last two words, Marceline pressed her chin against her chest and forced her diaphragm to relax. "No offense, Bonnie, but you're not so great at keeping promises that don't involve your own work." A spasm of anxiety jumped in Marceline's chest, her lifelong mental companion. It had been giving her heart a real workout today and her ribs ached with exhaustion. 

"It's okay. I understand. Resentment doesn't go away just because you know the reason something happened. Trust me; I know," she added meaningfully, sweeping aside the tangled blanket to sit on the end of the abandoned couch. 

Marceline swallowed back the spurt of guilt because Bonnibel was right. Further apologies and recriminations would lead nowhere. She glanced up, feeling the weight of her stare. Normal people looked and looked away, quick like, but Bonnibel would watch someone like a cat weighing their value as friend, food or toy. Even knowing that it wasn't deliberate, any more than Bonnibel's tendency to forget to look at someone when speaking to them, it held her attention. The creeping tension and anxiety of the day dropped lower into the pit of her stomach. 

Bonnibel blinked and looked away. "I know a lot of people called you a loser — a slacker — but you had the sexiest voice and learned to play like it was nothing. Course, our school had a crappy music department. Budget cuts," she repeated the old excuse sourly. "And I was right. You went. You went and found your music. God you're beautiful on stage. You're so vibrant it hurts to watch you, so you better believe I'll do whatever it takes to get you back on that stage." 

Marceline's breath caught on an intended snarky response, unable to speak in the face of such flagrant praise. She heard it and more from her fans on their blogs and social networks but Bonnibel nearly always spoke the unadorned truth. She loved the security of absolute facts, tangible proof of reality. 

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." 

"Nah. It's okay. I get how you meant it." 

"Do you?" 

Sensing that Bonnibel was staring again, Marceline cocked her head with a smile. She could count on one hand the number of times someone had regarded her that way without it being predatory. "Hard to miss. You've been hitting on me since breakfast." 

Bonnibel wiped a hand over her face, brushing back loose hair. She had the good grace to look away in chagrin. 

Marceline blessed the dim lighting as she felt herself flush all the way down to her chest. She jammed her heels into the plush carpeted floor, shoving her butt hard against the chair back until she could feel the wooden frame through the cushions. Sometimes, in her weakest moments, she fantasized about their past relationship, pretending it had never ended. But she knew it was childish. Everyone had their first romances, forever remembered through a haze of idealism or horror. 

"Really, I'm sorry," Bonnibel insisted. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." She sighed heavily. "But you can't blame a girl for trying." 

"I don't," Marceline murmured, watching Bonnibel's leg slide free of the robe as she fidgeted. 

Bonnibel smirked regretfully, with a whimsical tilt of her head. "I lied about why I couldn't sleep." She sucked air between her lips in a sound of self-chastisement. "I really shouldn't have come out here. I think a part of me just hoped…It was stupid." 

Marceline tried to regulate her breathing as her heart thumped a familiar tempo against her sternum. She adjusted her position in her chair, trying to rid herself of the binding sensation of her clothing. As she did, she felt that damning wetness between her legs and silently raged against it. She would never understand how easily she responded to a simple look from this particular woman when her body was so sluggish with others. It really wasn't fair. She tried to summon the familiar resentment over being abandoned like so much muddy trash but it wouldn't come, not when she knew the facts. 

She swallowed and started to wipe her palms on the hem of her borrowed shirt, stopped when velcro scraped and crackled against the fabric. "It wasn't stupid," she croaked out, then cleared her throat and forged ahead. "Makes sense. Tomorrow, I go back to my tour and then you go back to work. I go to my next gig and you're stuck here, juggling defense contracts and crime bosses. Different worlds and all that." 

Bonnibel smiled tightly in acknowledgment, more of a grimace really. 

With one kick from her sense of theatrical timing and a second from her martial training, Marceline pushed out of her chair and closed the distance between them before Bonnibel looked up. In the time it took her to start blinking in surprise, Marceline had straddled her hips. 

Bonnibel's lips worked as if she meant to say something as her eyes skittered over Marceline's face. She grabbed reflexively at Marceline's waist, then jerked her hands back as if scalded, flattening her palms onto the cushions. She swallowed hard. 

"God, Marcy, if this is a joke, you need to stop. This is too serious, okay?" Bonnibel warned quietly, brows lowering in pain. 

Resting her forearms on Bonnibel's shoulders, Marceline leaned close, tipping her face in silent invitation. "You're always serious. You were probably born frowning." 

"You know I can feel you shaking, right?" Bonnibel said, after a moment, words warm against her chin. 

"Then you know I'm serious too," Marceline answered, feeling the answering tension in Bonnibel's entire body, shoulders stiff, thighs bunched between hers. She licked her lips. "Or if you want, we can go back to pretending that I don't take anything seriously, I'll call you a dweeb, we'll have some coffee, you'll drive me to work and we'll go back to our separate little kingdoms." 

"Why are you doing this?" Bonnibel whispered. 

Fitting herself more closely, settling her weight, Marceline nudged Bonnibel with her right knee. Bonnibel shifted over, making space between herself and the couch armrest. She ran her fingers through the soft hair at Bonnibel's temple, tucking loose strands behind her ear, watching her eyes flutter closed. Her pinky landed over her pulse, going a thousand miles per hour despite her outwardly calm manner. 

"Kinda for the same reasons you are, I think. And my dad is a wad, but he gives good advice sometimes. He told me a story back then about my mom, about how he coulda saved her but he wanted to be, y'know, socially acceptable so he passed up chances until it was too late. I thought he was tryin' to make me feel sorry for him back then, but he was just telling me that getting what you want means taking risks and sometimes you wind up looking like a douche." 

"Did you just call me a douche?" Bonnibel whispered. 

"Nah, it's just that I don't usually hook up with my fans," Marceline said conversationally, dropping a kiss on Bonnibel's upraised jaw line, then another. "'cause I think that's pretty douchey." 

"Is that what I am to you?" Bonnibel asked shakily, wrapping a hand around the back of Marceline's head as her lips reached her throat. 

"Depends. Are you just doin' whatever it takes to make me feel better right now?" she asked, feeling Bonnibel's other hand cup her hip, fingers worming under the hem of her panties. 

Freeing her hand, Bonnibel grasped Marceline by the sides of her head to glower at her, the effect spoiled by her dilated pupils that contrasted with the paler green irises and lips parted by shallow breaths. "You damn well know better." 

"Then quit being so dumb," Marceline challenged, twisted her head to brush the edges of her lips against Bonnibel's. "I'm not a kid anymore. If I wanted you to stop, I woulda said so, Bon." Unable to fully reach, she settled for licking Bonnibel's bottom lip, plump, soft with a chafe of chapped skin. 

Bonnibel's grip changed as she muttered an insult, pulling Marceline close rather than holding her away, giving her the desired kiss with a low groan. The familiar sexual aggression sending her into action as she hooked a hand under Marceline's thigh, beginning to move in a surge of motion. 

"Stop," Marceline ordered quickly, tightening her legs around Bonnibel while her arms slid clumsily until she simply held them out, feeling Bonnibel's fingers clench possessively. 

"Ah, shit," Bonnibel said in comprehension, eying the braces thoughtfully. "If you let me, I can–" 

"No." 

"You changed your mind?" 

"No," Marceline assured her, picking at the knot on Bonnibel's robe belt. "It's just, you always…I mean…Can you untie this?" 

Bonnibel's eyes lit with understanding, a smile curving her lips slowly. Untying the belt, she asked, "You want the robe off too?" 

"Yeah," she confirmed, watching intently as Bonnibel shouldered off the robe, her torso pressed up against hers for a moment. She licked her lips, studying the rumpled t-shirt Bonnibel was wearing, the way her nipples tented the worn fabric. 

"The shirt too?" Bonnibel asked with the same inviting smile. 

"Yeah." 

Marceline fairly gawked, biting her lower lip and drinking in every freckle, noting the flex of every softly concealed muscle and so many damn curves. She started to reach out to hold but could only graze the back of her knuckles along the swell of a pale breast. She leaned forward, searching for a way to rest her weight on an arm when Bonnibel planted a hand on her shoulder, providing support. 

"You'll need to tell me what you want," Bonnibel started saying as Marceline licked and nibbled her way across her chest, fingertips dancing over warm skin that quivered under her touch as fingers tightened on her shoulder. 

"'kay," Marceline mumbled, sucking a nipple into her mouth, licking around the pebbled areola. "Hold still and don't knock me over," she added, releasing the nipple with a lingering pull. 

Bonnibel answered with a choked gasp, body arching as she tried to maintain contact. But her free hand took silent revenge, roving over her body as Marceline devoted herself to licking or kissing anything within reach. Yeah, she would feel like a dumbass in the morning, but it would be like she had said: they would go their separate ways so it wouldn't matter. 

When she found herself hunched over and gasping, following Bonnibel's touch for the excruciating spikes of pleasure, for the way it had her shaking, her hips rolling needily, Marceline bit her shoulder gently. Sliding down Bonnibel's body to escape the all too skilled assault, she planted herself on the carpet, between her knees. 

Bonnibel dropped her hands to her thighs, making fists before her fingers stretched out claw-like to clutch at her own knees. She twisted in place before opening her eyes, breath coming in harsh rasps and suppressed moans. With a plainly frustrated groan, she waited for Marceline to say something. 

And Marceline recalled how much needier and more responsive Bonnibel had always been, seeking out sexual relationships long before Marceline ever hand. But it wasn't jealousy or resentment that suffused her chest, caused her to drop a reassuring kiss on the ticklish inside of Bonnibel's thigh. 

"Take'em off," she ordered huskily, grinning as Bonnibel rushed to comply, shimmying out of her panties and kicking them aside. 

Marceline trailed her fingers through what she assumed were strawberry blonde curls, smile vanishing in a haze of lust as Bonnibel's hips twitched up under the light contact. She started to wrap an arm around Bonnibel's thigh, then stopped in consternation, nipping at soft flesh when she heard a warm laugh at her predicament. She stopped just shy of her goal, fingers toying with damp, swollen labia and listening to the way Bonnibel's breath caught with each touch. But as she felt the knees pressing into her shoulders, she knew they needed a solution quickly. 

Her foot bumped the coffee table behind her and she hooked the leg, dragging it up against her back. Bonnibel was only laughing until Marceline had her mouth full, licking and nuzzling as Bonnibel shook with the effort of holding still to avoid dislodging her. Even so, she could barely breathe and didn't care, listening to those gasps and cries, rising in pitch and guiding her. 

Until Bonnibel arched clear off the couch, hands strangling the poor cushion beneath her, the coffee table scraping across the carpet until the edge jammed itself against Marceline's back. She grunted at the impact and ignored it in favor of a lick here, another there, just to feel Bonnibel jump and twitch with the prolonged aftershocks. 

She felt fingers slip through her hair in mute reprimand followed by Bonnibel's wan voice. "Stop that. You're gonna give me a stomach ache." 

Marceline pressed her forehead against the couch, crushing the edge of the seat cushion until she hit the rigid frame. She concentrated on the discomfort of that textured cloth being compressed into her skin, wiping her forearm across her mouth and chin and drying it on the discarded robe. In that concealed space created by Bonnie's legs and that couch, her own pants were amplified into harsh rasps. 

She dug her fingers between the cushion and the frame, using that tenuous grip to hold herself in place. Every time she moved even a fraction, she could feel the slick slide of swollen lips, the creeping moisture. It made her want to rock her hips, grind against the nearest available hard surface, her hand, anything to ease that throbbing ache. With her free hand, she reached down and cupped her groin, trying to think past that maddening need, biting back the sound she wanted to make. 

Letting go, she leaned back enough to check on Bonnibel. She was slumped back against the cushions, head tipped back languidly. Her legs were relaxed and her arms sprawled out to either side. Her chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths. She was falling asleep. 

Marceline chewed on her lip, thinking. Bonnie asleep, inattentive, was good, but not like that on the couch. She would wake up kinked up and probably chide Marceline for allowing her to conk out. It would also force Marceline into the bedroom with the constant risk that Bonnibel would wake and walk in on her. 

Pressing her forehead back against the frame for a moment, gathering the strength in her shaky legs, Marceline pushed upright and pasted a friendly smile onto her face. She rested her elbows on Bonnibel's thighs, absently fingering damp curls. "Hey, you don't wanna fall asleep here, do you?" 

Bonnibel inhaled sharply, opening her eyes in surprise. "Sorry. Long day and the rain's hypnotic." 

"You should probably go get some sleep," Marceline said tightly. 

Scooting back up onto the couch seat, Bonnibel leaned over, cutting the distance between them and studying Marceline. She wound an arm around hers, catching her hand, walking her fingers over Marceline's knuckles, then cocked her head thoughtfully. "You should tell me if I'm being inconsiderate." 

Shaking her head faintly in negation, Marceline opened her mouth to release Bonnibel from any obligation, when she felt Bonnibel's unoccupied hand slide deftly along the side of her breast, thumb barely grazing her nipple through the worn cotton. She stuttered out a gasp, rising up off one knee as her body leaned in and followed the electric touch. 

"Don't grab," Bonnibel scolded, her face in the shadow of her loose hair. 

For a shuddering moment, Marceline couldn't even speak, the muscles of her neck and shoulders gripped by the simple sensation of a warm hand molding her breast, fingers spread along her ribs, numb points over hidden scar tissue. She forced her hands to release and dropped back to her knees, shaking. Then she scowled at Bonnibel. 

"I thought you took some more of your meds," Bonnibel commented, as if to herself. "But of course, you're stubborn," she added fondly. "I'd really like to make you come, if you'd let me, if that's okay?" 

Hoping the shadows would conceal more than the truth, Marceline broke eye contact. It was just sex. It should be an inconsequential thing, another fling with another fan. She wanted to seal up this festering relationship, not prolong it indefinitely. But internal muscles clenched, generating such a pang of wrathful need that she held her breath before speaking. 

"You should probably get to bed." 

Bonnibel tipped her head slightly, expression shifting into something sly rather than sleepy. "You mean go to my room and close the door?" 

At least that the darkness hid yet another betraying flush, as if she were still a teen defenseless against Bonnibel's greater experience. Bonnibel's hands kneaded her shoulders, fingers digging in tightly. 

"You probably gotta deal with lawyers and crap tomorrow and it's getting late," Marceline tried again, going for diplomatic but hearing that testy note in her own voice. 

"So will you. Unless you want to borrow mine?" Bonnibel began to walk her fingers up and a down, counting ribs or measuring the distance between hemline and arm. "You killed a man, after all, to protect me." She leaned closer. "The least I could do is provide concierge service." 

"That's the weirdest pick-up line I've ever heard." 

Marceline gulped in another breath as Bonnibel chuckled, trying to catch up with her lungs and opened her eyes to find Bonnibel watching her anxiously. She knew what would happen the moment she said yes. Bonnibel would take over, the way she always did, playing and teasing out the responses she wanted. And Marceline had enough of being manipulated for one day. 

"Please?" Bonnibel cut in, seeing the hostile decision begin settling across her features. "I'll do whatever you want, promise! I mean, I get it. You've been jerked around all day and now you can't even use your hands. Seriously, I get it," she repeated as their noses almost touched. 

Marceline shifted her weight indecisively, too aware of how Bonnibel had effectively cocooned her in shared body heat and achingly familiar scents. She shivered, feeling fingers slide up her neck, tickling behind her ears. 

"Did you just psychoanalyze me?" 

"Kinda? It's pretty obvious. You practically told me yourself." 

She rested her check against Bonnibel's collarbone, sighing, exhaling again as some of the mounted tension left her body. She flopped her arms despondently. "I can't even…" 

"Hey," Bonnibel interrupted softly, catching her hands lightly. "I'll do it for you, right?" She grinned cheekily. "I'm pretty sure that's how reciprocal sex works." 

Savoring the warmth, the salt on her lips and thrum of Bonnibel's heart, Marceline let out another long breath. "Look, Bon, don't take it the wrong way but I'm tired, stressed out and I really can't handle all that." 

"You just wanna come?" Bonnibel offered tentatively. 

Marceline's sheepish confirmation was barely audible before she explained, "And, y'know, that's not really…I know you." 

"It's not what? Sexy? Romantic? Because we haven't even touched each other since forever?" Bonnibel was smiling tenderly as she tugged on Marceline's elbows until she rose. "C'mere, you dummy an' I'll take care of it," she continued, fingering the waistband of her panties. "And maybe there'll be a next time and you'll let me indulge myself as much as I want, yeah?" 

"Honest?" Marceline asked warily, eyes drawn to a defensive bruise marring Bonnibel's forearm, another along her ribs. 

"Pinky promise," Bonnibel swore, tugging on the elastic hopefully with those exact fingers. 

Marceline couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled up and ducked her head in assent. 

Bonnibel promptly rolled the garment down and urged Marceline back into straddling her. "Don't grab, okay? I've got you," she promised, guiding Marceline's arms to drape over her shoulders. "Kiss?" 

Marceline answered by leaning, tilting her head to initiate. 

Bonnibel made a noise in her throat, a desperate whine that held Marceline's attention more than the indecisive shifting of her hands, trying to be everywhere at once before they stilled, then moved with purpose and direction before bunching around Marceline's t-shirt. 

Marceline leaned back and held her arms out in permission and Bonnibel was quick to divest her of the shirt. 

Her lips worked as if she were trying to say something but she only exhaled, gaze assessing with something far softer than lust. Marceline could feel her fingers kneading at her waist, the tremor transmitted through Bonnibel's arms. She made another noise before pressing her cheek against Marceline's sternum, warm breath against one breast. 

Marceline smirked as Bonnibel finally gave into a surreptitious urge to work her hand over her stomach. But when fingers flicked over a nipple, Marceline jerked up reflexively, the touch too sharp, too intense in her current state, only to be stopped short by a firm hand on the back of her neck. 

"Sorry," Bonnibel whispered contritely, ducking her gaze, the tip of her tongue on her lips. "It's kinda hard to stay focused and shit, you're built." 

"Wire work isn't for wimps," Marceline answered, settling back down into Bonnibel's possessive grip. After a beat, she realized she would need to signal that everything was okay and ghosted her lips over Bonnibel's jaw. 

She communicated with another kiss, one that grew breathless in what seemed like seconds and Bonnibel grabbed her behind her thigh, creating space between them over Marceline's muffled protest. When her fingers danced across her labia, Marceline jerked free of the kiss with a sharp cry, felt the hand at her neck become an arm bracing her shoulders. 

"Oh," Bonnibel breathed out in wonder. "Oh," she repeated in comprehension, fingers sliding more firmly, holding flat in implicit offer over her vulva, all enough to tease without satisfying anything. 

Jamming her elbows into Bonnibel's shoulders, Marceline bore down on that hand as her hips rocked of their own accord. She tried to speak but it came out a guttural sound that ended on a whimper. 

"Okay, okay," Bonnibel answered in hurried assent, fingers sliding and curling to wrap around bone until they hit a nerve as her thumb did the same against her clit. 

Marceline lost her ability to breath, ability to hold still or do anything at all that didn't involve riding Bonnibel's hand. She prayed there would be no games, no teasing or playing, just this hard and fast satisfaction. Her head and shoulders bowed slowly toward Bonnibel until her face was pressed against her neck and she could hear snatches of murmured reassurances. 

Bonnibel held her tightly as Marceline's body went rigid, arms and legs trembling with strain and anticipation, held her in place as she groaned in a miserable mixture of pleasure and relief that left her sagging. She tried to help as Bonnibel shifted her weight to embrace her more comfortably but all she could manage was an apologetic kiss, attempting to sooth the dents left by her teeth. She had actually forgotten what it felt like, this boneless, drunken bliss, the childish comfort of being held instead of falling alone. 

Bonnibel kept her wrapped in that embrace, a hand soothing her back until Marceline began to notice a slight cramp here, an itchy spot there, sore muscles and a vague ache from her wrists. She yawned and gave another groan, but this one of disgust. 

"You and me both," Bonnibel said, though her head was remained tipped back, eyes closed. "We should both go back to sleep," she added, pulling her other hand loose, fingers leaving wet trails. 

"It's the middle of the night," Marceline mumbled, determined to savor the intimacy as long as it lasted. She briefly entertained a fantasy that involved Bonnibel living at her house before banishing it to the realm of ridiculous. "I can't sleep. It'll screw up my schedule." 

"Haven't you been awake since yesterday evening? Won't that screw you up too?" 

"Are we arguing again?" 

"Isn't that a normal conversational style for us?" 

Marceline sighed and pushed herself off Bonnibel. Without the rush, regret was taking its usual place beside her heart where it liked to crush and squeeze its way through her chest. "I guess. You should go to bed, anyway." 

Bonnibel reached up with one finger to trace the bag under one of Marceline's eyes. "Will you come with me? Just to sleep, I swear." She smiled hesitantly. "I'll bet you stay out until dinner time and you'll wind up right back on schedule. I'll set an alarm." 

Marceline kneaded her fingers on her temple. "It's only two days until the show. I gotta…Crap, there's so much I gotta get done and now all this stupid shit on top of it and…" 

"You are not allowed to undo my efforts like that." Bonnibel grabbed her wrists, sliding her hands up until she could cup them over Marceline's fingers. "My legal team will take care of everything and I bet you've practiced your moves a zillion times. Chance is an old hat, so to speak. He'll keep everything on track. The best thing you could do right now is go the fuck to sleep." Her smile became a rueful smirk. "Take it from someone who's stayed up too many nights trying to get just a little bit more done." 

Bowing her head, Marceline took a measured breath, counting as she exhaled. Her eyes were itchy and everything Bonnibel said was probably true. She was reliably smart like that. There were more problems than she had listed, the ones created just now, but those had no solution. 

She nodded in acceptance. 

* * *

Marceline woke up several hours before sunset, then groused and complained as Bonnibel cheerfully directed her to eat, bathe and dress before Finn arrived to take their statements. He warned them that reporters were camped outside the hotel and offered an escort, but she declined. In her experience, the longer reporters were thwarted, the more obsessive and intrusive they became. He also kept eying the both of them, somewhere between wary and hopeful. 

Slipping a pair of shades over her eyes, Marceline said, "I think we should send him to his room and shut off the wi-fi." 

"And tell his parents," Bonnibel added, slinging a purse over her shoulder. 

Finn grimaced with a fake groan of regret. "I'm guessing my plan didn't go over so well?" 

Marceline tipped her head, arms akimbo, then broke off to motion at Bonnibel to don a pair of sunglasses before answering Finn, "I slept on the couch, which was way less comfortable than my travel bunk." 

"Sorry?" he offered hopefully as Bonnibel returned from the bedroom sporting a pair of pale sunglasses. 

She regarded him for a moment, then declared, "I haven't decided if you're getting anymore comp tickets." 

He sucked air in between his teeth with an, "Ouch." 

Seeing Bonnibel checking the time on her phone while biting back a grin, she nodded at the door. "I gotta get going." 

"I still get to go to this one, right?" 

"Sure, whatever." 

Bonnibel swung the purse at her head in tacit rebuke once they were safely in the parking garage. 

Marceline ducked easily, dancing over to her side of the car. She waggled a finger toward the entrance. "You ready for them?" she asked soberly. 

"I've held press conferences," Bonnibel assured her. 

"Yeah, heh." Marceline started shaking her head. "See, that's a controlled environment, as you would say. That out there is gonna be a zoo and you can't run them over with your rocket sled," she added pointedly, her sense of humor faltering. "Look, I really don't like doing this — it's the last question I want to ask — but, you gotta make up your mind right now how you want to play this…" The word relationship wouldn't come out of her mouth and she was forced to flap her hand between them while leaning on the open door. 

"No comment," Bonnibel answered promptly. 

Marceline laughed weakly in negation. "Won't fly. They already know who you are, that we're exes, that I stayed with you after the whole kidnapping thing. No matter what either of us say, they're gonna assume we hooked back up, which we sorta did, so…" She shrugged, studying the glossy carbon fiber of the car's top for a second before diving in the car because the reporters probably had long-range lenses. It was bad enough that Bonnibel could see her blushing. 

"So, what you're really asking is if I was serious about that second date?" 

"They're gonna ask, and ask, ask." 

"I was dead serious," Bonnibel answered conversationally while buckling her belt and hitting the start button. "I'm hoping you were too." 

Marceline dug her nails into the fabric of the new jeans Bonnibel's surprisingly young butler had provided her and glowered at the reporters barring the distant gate. Most people had more than a hundred yards to answer questions like that. 

"I really missed you," she said instead of all the words crowding her throat. 

"Same," Bonnibel said tersely, rolling the car forward. "But promise me that, if you decide this can't work, you'll say so; you won't just leave." 

"Promise to call?" 

"Like clockwork." 

"You know my crew's packing up for Vienna Sunday night, right?" 

"Yup. Nice city," Bonnibel remarked, completely unaffected. 

Marceline leaned back in her seat as they approached the gate, trying to uncramp her chest. "Get ready to smile for the cameras." 

She wound up plastered into that seat once they reached the autobahn and Bonnibel showed her what the car could do, all while muttering about nosy reporters and insulting questions. The drive left her squeaking in horror and bracing her elbows between the arm rest and console, until Bonnibel snorted in amusement while deftly dodging two slower cars. 

"No security escort this time, huh?" Marceline asked before gasping again and squeezing her eyes shut. 

Bonnibel smirked and pointed up. "I thought you were a pilot." 

"Sure, but then I'm in control and there's no traffic." Marceline craned around until she spotted the black helicopter keeping pace with them. "Show off." 

"Finn insisted on a motorcade. We compromise. Besides, it was obvious that I failed to impress you the first time." Bonnibel shifted quickly, cutting between two more vehicles, aiming for an exit. "Smile for the cameras, you said," she repeated sarcastically, then changed lanes so abruptly that Marceline was flung to the side. 

"If you're going to change your mind, do it it now because that shit is part of my life," Marceline growling, nursing a freshly bruised shoulder. "Slow the fuck down." 

Bonnibel didn't answer, her attention back on the road as they entered the restrictive inner city streets. Her expression was remote and her eyes concealed as the sun began to set. Eventually though, it was too dark and she flipped her shades up, tapping a finger slowly on the steering wheel. 

"Well?" Marceline asked quietly, trying to ignore the ball of lead that had taken the place of her stomach. 

"I want to apologize for losing my temper. I shouldn't have taken it out on you like this," Bonnibel began, with a stoic lack of expression, apparently dodging the question. 

Marceline cut off the stilted, formal delivery. "What the hell happened to you?" 

"Pardon?" 

"You used to be friendly and open, the first one to offer a hug and super outgoing. Is it really your job? Did it turn you into some sort of control freak?" She watched Bonnibel's knuckles tighten on the steering wheel until they turned a pale yellow. "Shit. I'm sorry. That was rude." 

"It was, but given our demanding circumstances, you deserve to know." Bonnibel swallowed and took a deep breath. "To be completely honest, it's partly because of you. You were…you were the first time I truly loved someone and when you left, that rejection…hurt. But it wasn't the worst case." 

Folding her hands together in her lap, Marceline bowed her head and listened through a static of dread. 

"I had a fiancée, a legal consultant. I know, boring. We met during a seminar in Geneva and hit it off. We played it long distance at first, but after awhile she wanted more intimacy and asked to move in with me. Against my better judgment, I let her," Bonnibel said with a bitter smile, tight with regret. 

"She was a spy or something?" Marceline hazarded. 

"No. I suspected it, of course, because she kept trying to get into secure areas of the building, ostensibly to see me, but there was absolutely no evidence for espionage. She, uh, didn't react well to my security teams just doing their jobs and pretty soon she started complaining about how I was never around, I was always busy…" 

"Y'know, it's a bad habit," Marceline chided. 

"Don't you ever get caught up in your work?" Bonnibel challenged softly. 

"Point, but not like you, and I would know." 

"Fine. So I love my work. Guilty as charged but I explained over and over that a lot of our projects don't have regular hours. Sometimes, we're not just trying to beat a deadline, we're racing against some militant group, a hostage situation, dirty bombs, you name it. If we don't get done in time, people die." She flicked her hand irritably. "But that wasn't good enough and then there was the other issue." 

"She get kidnapped or something?" 

"No, thanks to my security details and surveillance that she absolutely hated, she was always safe." Bonnibel raised a dismissive shoulder. "In the end, I wasn't the playboy she wanted me to be. She…said some things — called me a robot — and broke it off." 

Marceline listened to the purring engine, a rumble and a growl as Bonnibel shifted gears, moving with the inner city traffic. "That sucks," she said finally. "You're not a robot." 

"Thank you." 

"And I'm sorry I called you a control freak." 

Bonnibel glanced over at her, huffing out a faint laugh. "You already apologized for that and it's okay. It was a few years ago. But speaking of security details–" 

"This isn't where you go all Batman and tell me why we can't date, is it?" Marceline tried to joke, failing with each stiff word. 

"What? No! And that wouldn't stop nutjobs from trying to get at me through other people anyway," Bonnibel said in exasperation. "But if we do start seeing each other, you'll need extra security. I know you're a whiz with the computer but the guys you have right now are really just crowd control. I don't think they'd be able to stop the crazies." 

Marceline tipped her head with a wry smile for the oblique answer. "Getting kidnapped takes the sting out. Guess I'll have to take it up with Chance." 

"You're welcome to use my outfit but I don't want to step on any toes," Bonnibel offered in a rush before biting her lip as if she regretted saying anything. 

"That's sweet. Thank you," Marceline said, smiling without rancor. "Beats relying on my dad to watch my back." 

Bonnibel stared at her, lips parted in astonishment, corners edging up into a hesitant smile. 

"Red light." 

Their conversation was interrupted by hard braking and a rude gesture from the driver of an adjacent vehicle. 

"You're not going to get pissed if I admit I'm glad he's keeping an eye on you?" Bonnibel asked. "We're on opposite sides but–" 

"No way in hell am I going into debt with him," Marceline declared firmly, holding up her hands in refusal. "I'm not saying that being a mafia princess isn't a cool notion but I can see where that road leads and I'm not going there." 

Bonnibel snaked out a hand to squeeze Marceline's thigh before dutifully returning it to the steering wheel. "You always were a good person. You really willing to put up with potential kidnapping, staged accidents or straight up assassination attempts?" 

"I dunno," Marceline responded with feigned sincerity, pausing long enough to watch Bonnibel tense up. "Someone would have to be pretty dumb to piss off you _and_ my dad. What about you being in the gossip column every week with bad, photoshopped pics?" 

Bonnibel narrowed her eyes as they passed through the perimeter security set up around Lanxess Arena. "Are the gossip mongers always like that? Because I thought I was done with that crap when I got out of high school." 

"When a story's new, after a show, sure, and there's always a couple that need legal warnings, but not usually. Mostly it's kids with their cell phones when I'm minding my own business, if they recognize me." Marceline shrugged. "If we're confessing things, then I'm kinda boring off stage." 

Hanging her arms on the steering wheel while at a light, Bonnibel nodded to herself. Her lips moved as she spoke inaudibly to herself before taking a deep breath. "It's going to be an adjustment." 

"So…Call me after the show?" She pulled a rueful face. "I'd say before but it's gonna be batshit until then." 

Catching Marceline's anxious gaze, Bonnibel leaned across the console to drag her into a lingering kiss. "Tell Chance I have permission to use your number." 

Marceline broke it off to say she needed to get inside and face her zoo. Bonnibel agreed quietly, admitting that she needed to meet back up with Finn's task force, complete a review and prepare any potential legal defense. Neither of them moved until Bonnibel stretched over to pop the latch on the passenger door and unbuckled Marceline's seatbelt, giving her a light push. 

The crew mobbed her within seconds of her entry but all greetings were truncated by Chance's shouted orders to resume with set one, from the top after a ten minute break. He trotted over to her, all gangly legs, one of his favorite silly hats slouching off the side of his head like a fluffy green tumor. He slid to a halt with a haphazard hop before holding her by the shoulders and taking a step back to examine her astutely. 

His eyes dropped to the braces on her wrists. "Ms. Burgess claims you'll be able to play. Be honest with me, Marcy. Can you?" 

She grimaced and wriggled her shoulders in an iffy shrug. "It looks worse than it is, really, and they feel a lot better than they did last night. I can already hold stuff and nothing feels weak." 

He scrunched up his nose. "It's not going to be pretty if we need to cancel partway through the show." He shook his head absently. "What in tarnation did you do to them?" 

"Broke off a set of zip-ties." 

His bushy eyebrows disappeared under the brim of his hat and he looked at her expectantly. 

Marceline opened her mouth to tell him, but as she remembered, the words wouldn't come. Her jaw trembled with the effort until she finally swallowed and shook her head haltingly. "I really don't want to talk about it. How about you fill me in. Are we on schedule? Any problems?" 

"Well, there is one thing," Chance disclosed. "Some, shady character, shall we say, insists that you promised him an indeterminate number of comp tickets for this show. Would you happen to know anything about that?" 

"Shit, right. That's Reinhard. He's, uh, someone who helped with a bunch of…friends." 

"I see," Chance said dubiously. "An entire group of good Samaritans just came to your rescue? And here the news is going on about how the ATF fetched you two out of that building." 

Marceline stared at him flatly. "Drop him however many tickets he wants. Send a gopher. They should be safe." 

"Yes, ma'am," Chance drawled, aware that he had been dismissed. 

They ran through the entire set, complete with prop changes, though minus any costumes to save time. Marceline jumped twice from the catwalk and did a circuit of the arena so the fly team could test their wires. There was all the usual shouting and fussing as nerves got the better of band members and stagehands alike but rehearsals went almost disappointingly without hitch. 

About two hours later, Marceline was watching the last minute bustling. Tonight, all band members were under orders to rest and relax, to be fresh and alert for the final sound testing and last minute rehearsals. 

"You slept with her, did you?" 

Marceline hunched over the back of her chair and tucked her hands into her hair at the back of her neck. "God, Keila," she groaned out, "just don't, all right?" 

Perching herself on the wooden support beam of a large prop, Keila crossed her arms. "What did I tell you about dating an ex?" 

"We're not really exes," Marceline grumbled. "That requires breaking up to begin with." 

Keila responded with a drawn out, "Oh, I see. So it doesn't count if you didn't tell her? Is that your logic? Instead of, 'hey, how'd your week go' it's 'hey, how'd your decade go'?" 

She gave up trying to hide behind her elbows and slumped limply over the chair, arms dangling. There was sawdust on the floor. "Kinda, yeah." 

"You have got to be shitting me." When Marceline said nothing, Keila sighed, pushing off the prop. "Fine. You got laid. That's great but you can't go moping around like this right before a show. You know it's bad luck." 

"I'm not…Okay, yeah, I am and yeah, I know better. I'm just wondering when she's gonna call, all right?" Marceline raised one shoulder in a faint shrug. 

"And," Keila drawled, "you have enough experience to know people say that when they're not going to call, right?" 

Marceline huffed. "Duh, but if Bonnie say's she'll call then she will. She's like that but I don't know if she's gonna ask for another date or ditch because she can't deal with the press and being pasted all over the net." 

"And by date you do not mean being kidnapped by terrorists." 

"More like a friend-zoned douchebro," Marceline corrected dryly. 

Keila raised her eyebrows. "You are telling me that story on the way to Vienna because," she warned tartly, raising a finger and waving a long manicured nail, "I'm a good friend and won't be an asshole and say don't come crying to me when it all goes to hell, but…You know where my trailer is." 

"Thanks," Marceline murmured. 

"Oh, and before I forget," Keila added, sashaying away, "Danny wants to go over the intermission acts with you. He had some new ideas what with, y'know, all the stuff that went down. Something about juggled hatchets." 

Nodding, Marceline gave a truncated wave of acknowledgment. She never wanted to see another hatchet. But it would be a crowd pleaser and maybe even send a message to any would be assailants. 

The night was quiet, broken only by the hum of her generator and click of her mouse as Marceline sifted through the news reports and gossip columns. She imagined Bonnibel doing the same and throwing a fit over how many times her name and image appeared in them. Fame wasn't for the faint of heart and Marceline swiftly banished any thoughts of Bonnibel, focusing instead on repeating lyrics as if they were prayers. She had lost more than one lover to the media. 

There were no bomb threats during the concert, no more kidnapping attempts or even any real disturbances outside of some rowdy drunks. Nevertheless, Marceline didn't begin relaxing until she was bowing out during the final number, genuflecting over her bass as the lights dimmed so she could drop back into a recess in the stage. 

She dragged herself onto a cheap, metal folding chair to take a breather while stage hands ran to and fro, moving set pieces and breaking down the stage. They would maintain that pace until every trailer was loaded so they could begin traveling by morning. Anyone who finished early would join the after party. She toyed with the idea of not attending, while chugging water from a waiting bottle, but that would piss off a lot of VIP guests. One of the hands skidded up to her, giving her two ice cold gel packs and she peeled off her braces gratefully. 

"Hey, you okay?" 

Marceline jerked upright, looked at the speaker and was left nonplussed. 

Bonnibel grinned. Her hair was spiked with additional colors and the only spot of pink on her. She invited herself onto Marceline's lap, taking one of her arms and draping it over her legs, careful not to dislodge the gel pack. "You didn't recognize me out there, did you?" 

"It actually kinda hard to see with all the lights, especially with my contacts." 

"I was in the pit," Bonnibel told her while peering in fascination at Marceline's costume and makeup. "This is so weird up close. Is that glitter?" 

"You get any closer and my nose is gonna be in your cleave," Marceline warned with a grin. 

"Oh wow, those look completely real. Is it hard to sing with them?" Bonnibel asked, tipping Marceline's head up with two light fingers on her cheek. "You are totally covered in glitter. God, it's going to be all over me." 

"Nah. I'm covered in sealant. It improves light reflection to highlight my presence," Marceline defended primly, grin growing broader. 

"You sparkle," Bonnibel corrected, voice laden with censure. 

"You remember the time Finn and Ban got into that glitter fight?" 

Bonnibel groaned. "For the rest of my life." 

"And yeah, it took some practice to sing with the teeth," Marceline admitted, reminding herself that she needed to keep her hands unoccupied. Her gaze caught on some motion further back stage and she added quietly, "Bon, FYI, they're taking pictures." 

"Traitors," Bonnibel denounced but didn't get up. "Your own crew," she lamented. 

"Some of the locals are volunteers. You can't blame 'em." Over the paint on her skin, she could smell Bonnibel, that perfume she favored mixed with the leather of her jacket. 

Bonnibel draped her arms over Marceline's shoulders, fingering a prosthetic ear, her lips perilously close. "Wanna give them some really great pics?" 

Licking her lips, Marceline leaned back slightly, enough to see the mischievous glint in Bonnibel's eyes. "Once they're on the net, it's forever." 

Bonnibel raised an insouciant shoulder, her fingers threading into Marceline's hair. "I can live with that." 

It was Keila who chased them to Marceline's trailer, scolding her the entire time about dating exes with theatrical warnings not to miss the after party. And it wasn't until much later that Marceline spotted the small stack of mail on her dresser, culled from the usual pile of fan mail. Flipping through it, she nearly ripped the bottom one in half out of habit. 

She stopped, gaze traveling along the series of concert posters that lined the walls of her trailer until it landed on Bonnibel's sleeping form. Sitting on the stool, she slit open the letter, skimming it quickly. Picking up a photograph that had fallen out, she discovered her father looking back at her. His face was lined and he had gone gray at his temples, but he had the same, smug, devilish grin she remembered from childhood. He held a fan of ticket stubs out as if they were cards, mute little trophies of opportunities he had never missed. On the back of the photograph were two words and she convulsively threw it back on the dresser. 

Regarding it balefully, she sighed before tucking it back into the folded letter and putting both in her top drawer. Then she wriggled back into the narrow, fold-out bunk where Bonnibel mumbled a few sleepy complaints and wrapped her arms back around Marceline.


End file.
